


Strangers on this Road

by isitandwonder



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Dark, Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, John touching himself while Sherlock watches, M/M, Masturbation, Mention of torture, Mentions of suicidal thought, Mutual Pining, Pre-Reichenbach, Rimming, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock's Past, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vulnerable Sherlock, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-05-14 04:26:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 58,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5729458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/pseuds/isitandwonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While John and Sherlock orbit around each other, laden with fears and insecurities, it slowly becomes clear that Sherlock has a past he can't delete, while John has impulses he finds hard to control. It's neither easy nor simple but as they allow each other to get closer a special kind of fragile happiness might be waiting for them at the end end of this journey. Is that a risk worth taking?<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Fourteenth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5423909) by [isitandwonder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/pseuds/isitandwonder). 



> I wrote the first chapter as part of my advent series. It's only slighly altered. But than I was told it might be the beginning of a story, so I went with it. This is what I've come up with so far. As the first chapter has been published before, I give you two new ones as follow-ups.  
> The story will be dark and bleak, but that's what I'm prone to. There's smut and hope along the ride, too, I promise.  
> The title ist taken from a song by The Kinks, but I came by it via one of my favourite bands, Wye Oak, who covered it. You can listen to their beautiful version here:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7jB3YK1T0_c
> 
> I'll update every three to four weeks but you'll get rather long chapters for it. Please be patient, this just takes some time...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was kindly and thoroughly beta'd by **Lockedinjohnlock**. She not only patiently amends my grammar and punctuation but is also a vital source on such diverse topics as ligature marks, pharmacology and anatomy.  
>  But primarily she records great podfic (with a lovely English accent). Check her out at http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock  
> All remaining faults are mine and mine alone.

_Where are you going I don't mind_  
_I've killed my world and I've killed my time_  
_So where do I go, what do I see_  
_I see many people coming after me_  
_So where are you going to I don't mind_  
_If I live too long I'm afraid I'll die_  
_So I will follow you wherever you go  
_ _If your offered hand is still open to me_

 _Strangers on this road we are on  
_ _We are not two, we are one_

 

John hears the front door slam shut, but instead of the expected familiar noise of 6ft plus consulting detective dashing up the stairs, there's just … silence. Silence that stretches. Was it Mrs. Hudson, after all? But her Bingo night is Thursday, and today is Wednesday, John's sure of that. There are not many things in his life that he's sure of lately, but he can still distinguish certain weekdays: Thursday's Bingo, Friday's surgery, on Monday he sees his therapist. Of course, Sherlock is not to be expected to keep track of such common issues.

Speaking of … Now, listening into the void of silence, John can finally hear someone come up the stairs, but the steps sound heavy and unsteady. Then the door to their flat swings open, and there he is, a dramatic black silhouette against the light from the staircase. Sherlock Holmes, all great-coat and dishevelled curls, swaying slightly on their doorstep, positively reeking of booze and stale smoke.

“Sherlock … what the hell?”

“John...” Sherlock's voice is rough and a bit slurred.

“You're … are you drunk?”

“Nice deduction, John.” Sherlock tries to sound light-hearted and mocking, but there's something underneath - something that John can't quite put his finger on - that spoils the effort.  
His musings are interrupted by Sherlock stumbling into their sitting room and if John had ever thought that it would be fun to see his flatmate off his face, thereby losing his ability to come across as elegant, even when up to his elbows in stomach content or pig intestines, he's about to discover that the opposite is true: Sherlock is so unlike his … well, for a lack of a better term, let’s say … normal self that it's unsettling and quite disturbing.

He has to grip the back of John's chair to steady himself and John is up on his feet in an instant, offering his assistance but Sherlock just pushes him away and tries to unwind his scarf, failing miserably.

“Don't! Just leave me … you know … alone!” His hands wave through the air, ungraceful and clumsy and then he has to hold onto the chair again to steady himself. He's fiddling with the cluster of dark cashmere wool wound around his neck, plucking and pulling but to no avail.

“Sherlock, please, you are totally pissed. Let me help you before you throttle yourself.”

“If you take pictures, I'll poison your coffee.”

John crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow: “Honestly? Poisoning my coffee is so two months ago...”

Sherlock just huffs indignantly.

“All right, message received. No pictures.” John sighs.

Slightly appeased, Sherlock lets John relieve him of his coat. As John tries to untie his scarf, his fingers brush over Sherlock's throat. His skin is not hard and cold like the white marble it resembles, but delicately soft, warm and a bit damp from sweat.

John swiftly turns around and hurries to put the clothes onto their designated hook. Even in his inebriated state, Sherlock might be able to spot a hard-on if it pokes him in the thigh.

As John turns again, Sherlock is still leaning against his chair, gazing down onto its empty seat, frowning, as both hands cling to the backrest.

John retreats to the safe kitchen doorway, watching Sherlock from afar with increasing concern.

“Come over here, you need a glass of water.” If Sherlock throws up, the already mostly ruined linoleum will be much easier to clean than their supposedly silk Persian rug (it came with Sherlock, so it's probably is a real Kilim).

But Sherlock just pants a few times and doesn't even trie to move, only mutters: “God, John, the whole fucking room is spinning...”

Witnessing Sherlock using the f-word brings John's world to an abrupt halt. He slowly walks over to his flatmate and tentatively puts a hand on his bony shoulder.

“Hey, look at me.” Sherlock has obvious trouble lifting his head and to gaze at John. When he eventually succeeds, his eyes are glassy; the irises, which can shine all colours from light grey to deep blue, right now are almost colourless, the pupils the size of pinpricks. “You're not just drunk, are you?” John's world has started turning again, but now it skips slightly off-kilter. “What else did you take?” He has trouble concealing his anger. 'Don't scare him off', a voice whispers in his head, and John switches into doctor mode to emotionally detach himself from this lunatic he happens to share his digs with.

Sherlock shakes his head, remembering too late that this might not be a good idea. He has to close his eyes and swallow hard but then his knees buckle and threaten to give out and John has no choice but to grab the flailing body in front of him. andHe holds him close, as he more or less drags Sherlock over into the kitchen where he deposits his wasted friend on a chair.

Sherlock's head slumps down on his arms, folded on the kitchen table and he winces as John switches on the lights. It's too bright and evidently hurts Sherlock's eyes, as he groans into the crook of his arms but John doesn't give a toss. He slams a glass of water hard next to Sherlock's head, the liquid sloshing over the rim.

“Where have you been?” This is not a talk anymore, it's an interrogation and, as John has served in Afghanistan, he knows how to go about it.

“Club.” Sherlock mumbles, carefully lifting his head to take a sip of water, squinting his eyes nearly shut.

“Why? You don't frequent clubs.”

“Case.”

“What case?”

“Stalking of Violet Smith.”

John remembers the young woman seeking advice from Sherlock earlier this week. Something about a strange bloke following her to and from the station on her way to work and back. Hadn't sounded that promising. Who'd known that Sherlock Holmes had a soft spot for damsels in distress ...?

“I haven't...”

“Sorry?” John drops out of his presumed role of bad cop. Even after nearly a year, Sherlock's ability to read his mind still astonishes him.

“I haven't been drinking that heavily. I just had … Martini.” As the memory comes back to him, he has to press his fist against his mouth to stop himself from being sick right here at their kitchen table. John silently hands him their big salad bowl from the draining board, but Sherlock only eyes it in disgust then pushes it away. “We eat from that”, he says horrified.

“No, I do. I've never seen you eating salad,” John retorts.

“Still...” Sherlock trails off.

“Never took you for an especially squeamish type, with all the body parts in the fridge.”

“That's different. It's for science.”

“Of course.” They are silent for a while; only Sherlock's heavy breathing fills the room. “So, exactly how many Martinis did you have?”

“Please...” Sherlock whines. “I … I don't know. There was a … man … I think we had a fight.”

John pricks up his ears, suddenly alarmed. “Are you hurt?”

Sherlock shrugs indifferently.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Now Doctor Watson is in full swing. He pulls a protesting Sherlock up onto his feet and manhandles him into the bathroom, pushing him down onto the closed toilet seat before removing his Jacket. Then he hastily starts to unbutton Sherlock's tight purple shirt. 'I'm just checking for injuries', he recites to himself. 'This has nothing to do with me lusting after my flatmate. I'm a doctor, he's my patient.'

It's not really helping.

What helps is discovering ligature marks on said flatmates throat.

Looking further down, John becomes aware of more bruises blooming on Sherlock's protruding ribs – bright purple on pale skin, a ghastly contrast to the colour of his shirt. John carefully brushes his hands over the sore areas, and Sherlock inhales sharply.

“We need to go to A&E. These are very likely fractured. You need a scan.”

“No hospital.” Sherlock huffs, panic ringing in his voice.

“Sherlock, this can be really dangerous. If they penetrate your lung...”

“Please...” Sherlock begs, not looking at John.

Sherlock never begs.

His eyes are closed. His head lolls from side to side. John feels icy cold fear pooling in his stomach.

This is not just 'a bit not good'.

This is bad.

“Sherlock, look at me. What happened?”

Instead of answering, Sherlock finally can't hold his drink any longer– or whatever else he's consumed over the past evening – and starts retching. Luckily, he makes it over to the sink, clinging to it as his body shakes and cramps with wave after wave of nausea. John holds him upright as best he can, catching him around the middle, stroking his hair from his face, murmuring soothingly.

When Sherlock eventually only brings up green-grey bile, he sinks to the floor, exhausted. John silently pours him another glass of water. After gulping it down, Sherlock coils in on himself on the cold hard bathroom floor and John slumps down beside him.

“Better?” It's a stupid question but he has to say something to keep at bay the horror creeping in on him.

Sherlock bestows his attempt at conversation with a snort, then coughs and has to wipe his mouth on the sleeve of his 200 quid bespoke dress shirt.

John absent-mindedly reaches out to pet Sherlock's hair but stops abruptly as Sherlock flinches, then very slowly retracts his hand and begins to get up.

“I'm way too old for lounging on the floor”, John mumbles but what he really means is 'Dear god, let me wake up from this mess!'

“Shall I run you a bath?” he asks quietly.

Sherlock just nods.

He still doesn't move.

John leaves the awkwardly silent bathroom when the tub is filled with enough hot water to wash away, at least, all bodily remnants of whatever it is that happened to his friend. 'He'll be fine', John thinks. 'He's always fine.' But he lingers outside the closed bathroom door, just in case...


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock deals with what happened in his unique and peculiar way. Bit not good but effective...

_So you've been where I've just come_  
_From the land that brings losers on_  
_So we will share this road we walk_  
_And mind our mouths and beware our talk_  
_'Till peace we find tell you what I'll do_  
_All the things I own I will share with you_  
_And if I feel tomorrow like I feel today_  
_We'll take what we want and give the rest away_

_Strangers on this road we are on_  
_We are not two, we are one_

 

Sherlock is just glad when John finally leaves him be and closes the door behind himself. Though they are now separated by a more or less solid door (it can be locked but the latch is flimsy), Sherlock is aware that the barrier would yield to a few determined kicks. So he has to be careful and silent. 

Sherlock bolts it anyway, crawling over the floor, then sits with his back against the wood. He knows John's standing on the other side, waiting, listening, and it's not only humiliating, it's an outright nuisance.

Why can't the doctor just leave him alone? Does he really has to witness Sherlock's disgusting condition, his pathetic weakness?

At least the room has stopped spinning. After a few moments of sitting upright without expunging the by now fairly reduced content of his stomach all over the tiles, Sherlock slowly gets up on his feet and finishes what John had started by peeling off his rumpled clothes. He throws them into a careless pile on the floor next to the hamper. As if he's ever going to wear them again! But burning them right in the middle of their bathroom would not only trigger the smoke alarm John had insisted they install in every room (after one of Sherlock's experiments ended with the ugly lace kitchen curtains on fire) but would also seem overly dramatic, thus drawing John's attention even more to Sherlock's poor state.

Sherlock does not look at his reflection in the mirror. He just gets into the bath and slides down beneath the hot soapy surface. John had squeezed a fair amount of bath essence into the tub, so the rich foam covers his sore limbs completely.

After adjusting, stretching out, leaning his head back, Sherlock closes his eyes and drifts off. His mind is blank. He thinks of nothing, just relishes as his muscles relax and his frozen body warms up again. As the tension eases, so does his grip on his memory and images start to flood his thoughts: The angry distorted face of a man, spider web tattoo on his broad neck _(body builder, consumes steroids, ulcerous acne spots on his back giving him away, his penis probably the size of a peanut, compensating his lack of virility with an unpredictably irascible temper)_ , just visible above the collar of his too tight t-shirt _(Lonsdale, of course)_. A coarse voice spluttering common insults. A New Balance trainer kicking someone, hard. It hurts... Why is the creature on the floor not fighting back but only tries to cowardly cover its face by curling into a ball? God, this is intolerable. Ah, well, there's another man, a hand with tattooed knuckles _(seriously, “love” and “hate”?)_ around a long pale neck, pinning twitching spindly arms behind an expensively clad back, spanning two bony wrists with just one of his big rough paws... There are words murmured in an ear _(What’s he saying? I can’t…)_

Sherlock has no idea how long he's been soaking. He jerks up at the sensory memory of fingers tightening in his curls. To overwrite this recollection, he starts to fiercely wash his hair. This leads to equally fierce scrubbing of his entire body, until his tender skin burns and his damaged bones ache. The pain floods his brain with endorphins, the sensation pushing the haunting retrospection aside. 

The water has gone cold as Sherlock eventually gets out of the tub. He dries himself, again avoiding to acknowledge his frame reflected in the mirror. It's just transport. It's not important. Even when brushing his teeth does he not look up, astoundingly ignoring the gaunt pale face that looks back at him, eyes huge and hooded, with dark rings beneath.  


He has to admit he experiences exhaustion but senses John still lurking in the hallway. He can't deal with that now. No more pity. No more compassionately reassuring empty phrases. No more sympathetic looks. As if what happened hadn't been bad enough. No, wait... Nothing happened. He forgot... He'll delete the whole episode, as he has deleted others. 

Nothing happened. Not to him. A broken body on hard cold soil in a dirty back alley... IT CAN'T. Full stop. 

Enough of this indulgence in self-pity. It's rather appalling. He resolutely ties the belt of his dressing gown, lifts his chin and squares his shoulders. 

To avoid his sensitive flatmate, Sherlock takes the door leading directly into his bedroom, striding with as much dignity as he can muster. On his nightstand rests another glass of water with a packet of ibuprofen next to it. That's … nice. Naive, but nice. 

For it won't be enough to dull the pain. Sherlock knows what he needs to go to sleep, to forget, to relax, without dreaming or remembering or … feeling. 

His stash is carefully hidden behind the old sepia reproduction of a photograph of Edgar Allen Poe. Sherlock removes the back of the frame and his pulse quickens as he spots the small plastic bag that's still to two thirds filled with a brownish powder. His syringe is wrapped in one of his old pants, stuffed to the back of a drawer. He has good, visible veins but as he doesn't engage in using IV as much of late, he feels in need of a tourniquet, so decides on a worn soft brown leather belt. The ritualistic aspect of this process is at least as important as the actual consumption. One of the numerous used tea mugs strewn around the room supplies him with a spoon, and the water needed to brew a shootable solution he drains from the glass of water prudently provided by John. Finally, he gets out a wrap of antiseptic wipes and a jar of 100% pure vitamin c powder (John had been very pleased when Sherlock asked him to get it at Boots, hoping his flatmate had for once realised the importance of spicing up his unbalanced diet with some healthy supplements). 

After lighting a candle, Sherlock pulls the belt tight over his upper arm, then wipes first the inside of his elbow with an antiseptic dab, before cleaning the spoon with a second one. He gives a small pile of the grey-brown gear onto the spoon, mixes it with the citric powder (he's a chemist, he knows that brown heroin needs acid added to be broken down into a administrable solution), finally adding some drops of water. He cooks it until the the powder has resolved into a light brown but otherwise limpid liquid. Than he draws up the syringe. His veins have swollen nicely, so he loosens the tourniquet and is just about to sink the needle into his arm when he hesitates, the tip hovering in shaky fingers just inches away from breaching his nearly translucent skin. 

John’s voice is suddenly in his head:  
“Sherlock, what the fuck…?” Sherlock imagines John’s shocked face, words dying in his mouth as he watches Sherlock in horror, his jaw going slack as he's confronted with openly displayed addiction, witnessing Sherlock's need and dependency. 

“Piss off, John.” Sherlock's voice is calm while the needle still lingers above the delicate white skin at the inside of his elbow. 

“Sherlock...” It’s barely a hoarse whisper, insistent and a bit disappointed. 

“PISS.OFF! This is none of your business!” Sherlock closes his eyes, forcefully willing John to leave his thoughts. 

“Please … mate … I'm sure we can talk about this...” John stutters, obviously shaken but not retreating. 

“Oh, yes, of course.” Sherlock retorts sweetly. “So, tell me, Doctor Watson, have I done it right?” He crooks his head to one side. “Well, never mind.” And with that, Sherlock sinks the needle in. The tip breaks his skin with only a light prickling and he takes his time, drawing in some dark red blood to make sure he's hit the right spot (if the blood was pink-red, he'd penetrated an artery – very bad!), before pushing the plunger firmly down, injecting the adored poison into his blood stream in one swift motion. There's nothing John can do about it! Intoxicating, really, in more than one way. 

John gasps. John groans. 

Sherlock sighs. 

Bliss. 

Oblivion. 

Calm. 

Sherlock's eyelids flutter shut momentarily as he revels in the instantaneous sensation of the potion spreading through his body, numbing him while simultaneously alerting every nerve and fibre of his being. 

He only comes round reluctantly but he knows he has to pull the syringe from the vein soon. He presses another antiseptic wipe over the puncture wound and bends his arm to prevent bleeding. Afterwards, he just tosses everything in the drawer of his nightstand. He’ll clean it later. With more care, he hides the plastic bag again. John finding it would be an utter waist. Finally, he blows the candle out (fucking smoke alarms, again). Only then Sherlock allows his body to slump onto his bed. 

He lies on his back, staring up at the ceiling lit just by the street lamps outside and watches the shadows move as streaks of light stream in from passing cars and buses. He floats, detached, aloof – and then he feels nothing at all. 

He must have fallen asleep, for suddenly, there are hands on his body. His eyes snap open and with some effort, he blinks the frame of his flatmate into focus, standing above him, clutching his right arm, shaking him. 

“Take your hands off me!” Sherlock hisses but John does not listen, he only grabs tighter, brings his other hand down on Sherlock’s left arm, actually pinning Sherlock to the mattress. Next he'll be sliding his hands up, round his throat, until… 

“I said, take your hands off me!” Sherlock barks out. 

John looks down at him, startled. He removes the hand slightly resting on Sherlock’s shoulder and steps back. “Sherlock... what are you doing? I feared you drowned. Then I thought I heard your voice. Everything all right?” He sounds worried and incongruous. 

“Self-medication. Now, if you could just fuck off, I might be able to go to sleep.” 

Sherlock feels as if time stretches like syrup. He’s trapped in sticky molasses, with a concerned army doctor by his bedside, who just won’t leave him in peace. 

The next thing Sherlock knows, he's lying onto his side, still clothed in his dressing gown. John's next to him, holding him and it makes Sherlock want to kick, to lash out, to yell, to vomit but he doesn't move or make any sound. Experience tells him that staying utterly still is the best course to navigate this situation. The man will eventually move away. If he puts up resistance, it'll only get worse. So he lies very still, nearly frozen – and waits. 

John's hands stroke Sherlock's hair, his back and it makes him nauseous. He wants to cry. Why? The smack should have made him numb, absorbing him in balls of soft cotton wool, draining all the loathing out if him, remove him to a state of untouchable reverie. So why can't his ridiculously attached flatmate just go away? 

“John?” 

“Yes, Sherlock?” 

"Go away.” 

“I can't leave you like this.” 

This is unbearable! This is unheard of. 

“John?” 

“Yes, Sherlock?” 

“GO. AWAY. Or I swear I'll kick you out of my room.” 

“I'd like to see you try.” John retorts and Sherlock can sense the reprehensibly warm smile in his voice. 

“You think I'm kidding?” Sherlock is getting furious. 

“Not at all.” 

John's tone makes Sherlock turn and look at him. 

“I know you want me to leave. But I won't. Because you need me.” John declares, tightening his grip around Sherlock's waist, pulling him in, holding him close. It's possessive and intimate and absolutely unwanted. 

Sherlock bristles at this level of unprecedented patronising behaviour. “Who do you think you are? My brother had a whole armada of shrinks descending upon me and no one broke me and got anything from me, so why do you think that you … are special?” 

“Because I am. Because you are.” John still strokes Sherlock's hair and suddenly it's all too much. 

“Please … go.” Sherlock whispers, sounding desperate and broken and weak and suffering and sick to death. 

Sherlock opens his eyes again. Why is John standing next to the bed? How did he manage to get up so quickly? Sherlock slowly blinks once, twice but John’s still there, watching him, his face strained and … sad? 

“I’m just tired.” Sherlock croaks, pulling the duvet over himself, covering his lithe and almost naked body. 

John finally seems to sense Sherlock's dire need for solitude. 

“You’ll be fine in the morning. Just sleep.” He pads Sherlock's silk clad shoulder again, just once and very carefully. 

“Of course I’ll be fine. I am fine. I’m absolutely fine.” Sherlock mumbles into his pillow. 

“Yes, you’re great. Now I’ll be next door if you need me.” 

“Why would I need you?” Sherlock inquires lazily, drifting off into blissfully blank oblivion. 

“No reason at all.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I'll update every three to four weeks but you'll get rather long chapters for it. Please be patient, this just takes some time...


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day after...

_Holy man and holy priest_  
_This love of life makes me weak at my knees_  
_And when we get there make your play_  
_'cause soon I feel you're gonna carry us away_  
_In a promised lie you made us believe_  
_For many men there is so much grief_  
_And my mind is proud but it aches with rage_  
_And if I live too long I'm afraid I'll die_

_Strangers on this road we are on_  
_We are not two, we are one_

 

Life, Sherlock muses, drifting in and out of sleep, is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. Most people would not dare to conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of existence.

Sherlock dreams taking John's hand and flying out of their sitting room window holding him tight, hovering over the great city, gently removing the roofs and peeping in at the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events, working through generations and leading to the most outré results. It makes all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable.

In his dream Sherlock smiles to himself and John smiles back at him, admiring Sherlock’s clever thoughts and beautifully versed poetic ruminations, even reaching out his free hand to stroke Sherlock's cheek tenderly. The touch burns and leaves an ugly dark stain, a hideously repugnant black mark and then Sherlock can feel his skin peel off his face as John flails him with clawing fingers, ripping away pale skin, yellowish subcutaneous fat tissue, pink flesh and red muscle (Zygomaticus, Orbicularis Oris, Risorios, Mentalis), exposing the white bones, until he's but a grinning skull (not unlike Billy on the mantelpiece). John smiles all the time, a sweet and slightly gawky smile, murmuring softly “Look at you! Just look at you!” 

And suddenly, it's not John anymore who stands in front of him, who's hand Sherlock is clinging to but all he can take in and perceive are two narrow burning black eyes, gazing deep down into his brain, laying bare Sherlock's most dark and hidden secrets.

He wakes up, sweaty and itching, his mouth dry and filled with the taste of stale bile.

After gulping down the rest of the water on his bedside table, Sherlock gets a bit more aware of his surroundings. The room is bright, so it must be nearly noon. Despite his excessive bath last night Sherlock feels in desperate need of a shower.

As he sits up, his head starts pounding. Luckily, John left painkillers for him, so Sherlock takes three tablets but has to swallow them dry. Well, needs must...

Before stepping into the tub to shower, Sherlock allows himself a look in the mirror, carefully touching his face. He's pale and haggard, his eyes sunken and bloodshot (but that can be attributed to the unfamiliar intake of alcohol last night), his cheeks hollow. He looks knackered but might blame a hangover and get away with it, as he rarely drinks anything stronger than sweet milky tea.

When he finally emerges from his bedroom – hair still wet but immaculately dressed in shirt and bespoke black trousers – John is sitting at the kitchen table, happily munching away on a sandwich for lunch, leafing through The Independent. The smell of ham and cheese nearly makes Sherlock's stomach turn.

John lifts his head and looks Sherlock up and down, apparently still miffed because of last night. “Feeling better?” the doctor inquires a tiny bit mischievous, eyeing Sherlock suspiciously.

Sherlock doesn't deign to answer but fixes the kettle with an intense stare, as if miraculously getting it to boil by sheer willpower.

“Patience you must have, my young padawan,” John mumbles and the look of utter incomprehension he receives from Sherlock is priceless. “Star Wars?” he offers but that doesn't sit well with Sherlock, who just rolls his eyes and huffs in annoyance: “Really, John, for a grown up man, you can be remarkable childish.”

“There's no point in being grown up if you can't act a little childish sometimes,” John retorts with a small smile playing around his lips.

“Was that yet another quote?” Sherlock asks warily. “Honestly, don't you think you should fill your head with something a bit more useful?”

“Like what? The periodic system? The varying tensile strengths of different natural fibres?”

“For example!” Sherlock sternly refuses being mocked by John Watson before breakfast. “Comes in quite handy sometimes.”

“Really? Like, when pulling someone?”

“Sorry?”

“Oh, never mind.”

Sherlock eventually switches the kettle on, takes a mug from the cupboard and puts a tea bag and a huge heap of sugar in it. He sniffs the milk, pulls a face and sets it back onto the counter. John watches him, raising an eyebrow, slightly shaking his head in resignation but keeping silent otherwise. 

As Sherlock literally waits for the water to boil, he stares into nothing and John is getting a bit alarmed by his unusually tense behaviour. It’s quite unlike Sherlock to act as if … embarrassed, for that would call for retrospective analysis of his deeds, which he’s totally opposed to or ignorant of.

“You all right? How's your chest? Shall I check...?”

“I'm fine!” It's a mechanic reply but one that bears no argument. The kettle clicks off and Sherlock fills his mug up to the rim.

John tries nonetheless: “Sherlock, please...”

“I. AM. FINE!” Sherlock slams the mug down, hard, and the boiling water spills over, almost scalding his fingers. “Stop treating me like a stroppy child!”

“Then stop behaving like one! You got hurt. I saw the bruises. Why won't you tell me what happened?” John refuses to back down and instead tries to reason with his flatmate.

“But I told you. I had a few drinks. Got into a fight. That's it. Nothing to fuss about.” Sherlock nearly wails, utterly bored by being forced to repeat himself because of John's pedestrian concerns and dull worries.

“Someone throttled you. There are actual strangulations marks on your throat and the whites of your eyes show petechiae! Don't even dare to deny it. I'm a bloody doctor, I know about these things!” John’s voice sounds clipped as he confronts his flatmate’s nonchalance. He pushes his chair back and gets up, to be more level with this pain in the ass leaning against their worktop, jauntily blowing on his tea.

“Than you should know that petechiae can also be caused by vomiting, which I did excessively last night, if I remember correctly. Because I was rather drunk.”

“Stop deviating from the topic! You were crouching on the bathroom floor, retching and when I tried to touch you, you literally flinched and coiled in on yourself.” John’s nearly shouting now – not very smooth, he knows, but he can’t help it; Sherlock is such an infuriating dick sometimes, it’s unbelievable!

“I was off my face!”

“I've seen loads of pissed blokes in my time in A&E but nothing like that. Besides, I doubt it was only booze.”

“What are you insinuating?” Sherlock sneers.

“We both know you have a rather … affluent … inclination towards substance abuse...” John trails off but his eyes never leave Sherlock’s face.

“Nicely put, John. So, once a junky, always a junky?”

“More or less.” John concedes, still looking Sherlock straight in the eye.

OK, this is getting too close to home. As both outright denial and well aimed insults have failed, Sherlock eventually sees but one last resort: call on John's compassion. It's a little bit ignominious and it makes him feel sleazy but John gives him no choice. Sherlock casts his eyes down and bites his lower lip, displaying a level of vulnerability he knows John finds impossible to resist.

“What is it? Spit it out?”

“I … think … someone spiked my drink...” Sherlock murmurs, even blushing slightly. It's one of his better performances. “It's … rather embarrassing. I should have known better. But I was … distracted … and when one of the suspects offered me a drink... well, it was textbook. Utterly humiliating.” He coughs, then stares at a spot on the floor right next to John's feet.

“Oh, fuck! Sherlock, have you any idea what they might have given you?” To Sherlock’s great relief, John sounds instantly concerned, but at the same time satisfied with the explanation he’s given. Good, that will hopefully stop him from further inquiries. But better give him some more information to reinforce the feeling of reluctant frankness.  
“I'm not sure. Zolpidem? Midazolam? I could pee in a jar to run some tests, if you really want to know...”

“No! Just … no.” John wipes his face with both his hands and Sherlock, who is for a second reminded of his dream, shudders but then John asks tentatively: “What do you remember?”

“Not much, actually. I think there was a fight. A tattoo. A Lonsdale shirt. That's about all.” He's an accomplished liar. Little bits of truth always add credibility. He licks his lips, shrugs, then coyly looks up at John from under his lashes.

“It's not your fault.” John hastens to assure him.

Sherlock shrugs, then pokes at the faded linoleum with his toe, before looking up again, frowning. “I never said it was.” Sherlock sounds irritated.

“Oh, hello, now I think I recognise you. You are my mad flatmate, that insufferable git called Sherlock Holmes.” John smiles at him,but there's still apprehension in his eyes.

Sherlock smiles back, then takes a sip of his tea.

“You should eat something.” John reminds him. Sherlock knows he has to appease John; there's no better way than allow him to feed him up.

“Any chance for toast with Marmite?” Sherlock asks, raising an inquiring eyebrow (at least that would be salty, replacing some of the nutrients he lost last night) and John is simply happy to oblige.

\--------

Later, Sherlock lies on the sofa, allegedly thinking but, truth be told, he's just taking a nap, when John asks him suddenly, nearly calling him out: “So, the case?”

“The case?” Sherlock retorts bewildered. For a second, he has no idea what John is talking about.

“Violet Smith? Our client. I thought you were following a lead to her stalker last night?”

Eventually, the penny drops. Sherlock's sure it's literally audible. “Yes. Yes I was. Rather boring. Very disappointing. It's her employer. Fears the junior manager might be after her. Well, he is, he's rather besotted with her, up to a very unhealthy degree but same could be said of her boss, so it's out of the frying pan and into the fire for her.” Sherlock waves an elegant hand, dismissing the whole business as totally irrelevant.

“Don't you think you should contact her and tell her, warn her?” John asks after a moment, sounding uneasy.

“What for?” Sherlock seems genuinely puzzled but not especially perturbed.

“So that she could take precautions?” John clarifies. Talking to Sherlock sometimes reminds him of explaining basic social skills to a five-year old.

Sherlock turns his face and looks at John, raising one eyebrow, asking blasé: “What precautions? Taking up self defence training? Getting a Bull Terrier? Carrying pepper spray, which is illegal, by the way? All of this won't stop her pursuer. As I said, he's obsessed with her. He can't stop. The only thing she could do is vanish from his radar and hide but that would destroy her career perspectives. The easiest thing for her would be to just give in and let him have his way with her.”

“Sherlock, for god's sake, how can you say such horribly misogynistic things? Are you even aware that a thing called feminism happened? Besides, she's got a boyfriend, for all I know.” Who should string you up by your exquisitely poncey balls! John adds, if only to himself, before deciding that thinking about Sherlock's anatomy is very much not on right now.

“So what? He can neither protect her, nor offer her secure and well paid employment pursuant to her qualifications. Alliances have been forged for far lesser causes.”  


“Alliances? Sherlock, this is not war. Being with someone is about love and care and respect; altruistic reasons.”

Sherlock snorts with histrionic laughter: “You really believe that, John? People living together, getting married, not for their individual gain but out of some vague romantic notions?”

“Yes, Sherlock, you can mock me as long as you like but I believe in what you would call sentiment.” John's not sure if they are discussing abstract relationships in general anymore, or something else entirely. He hopes - against better judgement and expertise – that Sherlock will not scrutinise his reasoning too thoroughly.

But Sherlock seems to be really annoyed by John's utter incomprehension of his superior logic He sits up, persistently arguing his point: “How naive can you be? Matrimony is a state-approved joint property. An effective measure of social control. It's a contract under common law! There's no romance in that. Just look at your parents, look at your sister, look at almost every relationship you have ever encountered. They are all doomed to fail, or have already done so spectacularly. Those who stay together despite the fact that they, at best, don't care anymore about each other, or, worse, outright hate their spouse, do so out of convenience or fear of loneliness, which, in my opinion, are both insufficient reasons to burden my live with the presence of someone I'd more or less despise.” When Sherlock ends his rant, he's gotten to his feet and started pacing.

“How dare you drag my parents into this! Only because you were never able to sustain a functioning romantic relationship, that doesn't mean no one can!” It's a low blow, John knows it but Sherlock had it coming, abusing his mum and dad.

“Oh, you are one to talk! What about you, then? Three Continent Watson, I presume?” Sherlock sneers back, standing in the middle of their sitting room, hands on his hips. “You are hardly the poster boy for matrimonial bliss either.”

“We are totally not talking about my sexlive!” John stalls, getting up from his chair, too, poking his index finger lividly in Sherlock's direction, close to stabbing him in the chest.  
“Sexlive!” Sherlock snorts sarcastically. “You mean your sad endeavours of chatting up lonely middle aged divorcees in faceless chain pubs, always leaving before breakfast, sneaking out of their too soft beds and their depressing flats at the break of dawn?”

“Well, due to my other obligations regarding my danger prone and socially awkward flatmate, that's about all I'm able to sustain!” John is getting rather worked up. What the hell has gotten into Sherlock? He's in a real mood today. Or does it just hurt because Sherlock's razor-sharp analyses are, for once, directed at himself rather than clients or criminals? It's a very unpleasant experience to be at the centre of the focus of Sherlock's mercurial temper and uninhibited deductions.

“So, that's what I am to you? An obligation?” Sherlock yells, sounding almost piqued and suddenly John is aware of their impossible situation, for he can't tell Sherlock, can he...? Not after his previous statements on the evanescence of all human relationships.

“No, of course not. At least not all the time.” John has calmed down a bit. The shock of nearly confessing his feelings to Sherlock has brought him to his senses. He has to be more careful, he reminds himself, slumping back into his chair, raising his hands in apology. “Just don't generalise your bleak views on humanity. Especially not regarding my family.”  
Sherlock still glares at him but John notices the tension between them slowly easing. 

He tries one final approach: “But I honestly think you should inform Miss Smith of your findings. She has a right to know. Why else would you bother to find out in the first place?”

“To satisfy my curiosity.” Sherlock states primly.

John huffs a laugh and shakes his head. “Well, how about satisfying my outdated chivalrous attitude and give her a fair warning? To make it up to me for calling my parent's marriage a sham?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and sighs heavily but when John walks over to press his phone into Sherlock's palm, closing his long slender fingers around it with his own sturdy ones, he's met with no resistance. They stare intensely at each other for a moment and John could swear to observe a flicker of ...interest? …surprise? ...excitement? … in these pale eyes, today rather alarmingly shot with red spots due to collapsed blood vessels.

When he loosens his grip and removes his fingers, Sherlock still looks at him, cocking his head slightly and his cheeks flush a little, before he lowers his eyes down to the display and starts typing furiously.

John knows he's standing too close but he can't drag himself out of Sherlock's vicinity. Instead, he longingly stares down on his tousled dark curls and bites his lower lip, allowing himself in this unobserved moment to indulge in the sight of Sherlock's delicate white neck, bowed down, so that John can just glimpse the fourth vertebra protruding beneath the collar of his shirt. John seriously has to fight the impulse to push his hand into Sherlock's hair and pull his face flush against his groin. 

What the fuck is wrong with him? This is so very not good! He's nearly slobbering over his totally not interested, probably asexual flatmate, who, in this particular area, has as much experience as a ten year old convent schoolboy. Although, going by the recent state of the Catholic church, this might be a vast misconception. God, this has to stop.  
When Sherlock finally looks up, showing John the message he just typed and sent, John still stands rooted to the spot, his pupils dilated, fists clenching, his lower lip glistening wet.

Sherlock's first thought is: No!

Then he relents, thinking a fraction softer: God, John, please … don't.

Then, he panics. He suddenly experiences the strong urge to leave, so he gets up and, without another word, strides towards his room. He carefully closes the door behind him, then leans his forehead against it, breathing deeply.

This is totally uncalled for.

He can't compute this.

He's not equipped to deal with John's … affection? No, there had been something different, something threatening and unsettling. John had clearly displayed predatory intentions. Sherlock shuts his eyes and exhales. What had he gotten himself into?

Fucking sentiment!


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John decides at least to partly resolve the pent-up tension. Accidentaly, Sherlock observes...  
> They say no man is an island. I beg to differ.  
> A bit of smut, mixed with loads of angst and futile ponderings.

_Yesterday I got so scared_  
_I shivered like a child_  
_Yesterday away from you_  
_It froze me deep inside_  
**The Cure – In Between Days**

John still stares at the space vacated by Sherlock some minutes ago, rooted to the spot. What the hell did just happen?

Torn between embarrassment and perplexity, John wonders if he gave himself away and, if so, it should perturb him? For it's true, to call Sherlock perceptive might be the understatement of the century but it’s also a profound fact of John's life that his flatmate is usually totally oblivious towards everything regarding sentiment. 

So? Did Doctor John H. Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers fuck up royally, or is Sherlock just being Sherlock? After all, the git had been in a strange and precarious mood all day and maladroit might be his second name any given day.

John slowly shakes his head, then looks around the empty sitting room. After briefly contemplating going after Sherlock, he swiftly abandons this thought, because he still bears a grudge with His Nibs for being unceremoniously shown the door last night and seriously doesn't need that experience a second time in 24 hours. So he gathers his wits and forces himself to move with most of his dignity still intact, idly shuffling up into his room, where the persistent need to get the tension out of his system starts to take its toll.

John knows what's about to happen, which beaten path he'll trod and there's a part of him that shies away from what he's about to do. It's the quick way round to guilt and shame but it's also the only one he can think of right now. As mortification will surely take over afterwards, it better be worthwhile.

After carefully closing his bedroom door, making sure it’s locked, John leans back against it. He knows he won’t make it over to the bed, because his boner is already uncomfortably and quite insistently rubbing against the fly of his jeans and anyway, John wants to revisit the memory of hovering over Sherlock, his long pale neck bowed down, tendons strained, delicate white skin stretched over his spine, nearly translucent and oh so sensitive... The fine hair at the nape of Sherlock's neck is damp, curling, as it had been last night...

John recalls their fingers touching, entwining, brushing against each other. He remembers stroking Sherlock's silky curls, holding his heaving body, feeling taut muscle contracting beneath expensive fabric. He has to bite his fist to stifle a groan.

Then he envisages Sherlock downstairs, in his room. What's he doing there? Does he muse about what just happened between them? Is he playing out possibilities in his head, tossing them around? John is sure he saw recognition in Sherlock's eyes just minutes ago. Does he contemplate how to go about it?

John could just go and ask. He could just walk in on Sherlock, push his hand in his dark hair and pull him into a messy kiss, then straddle him, rubbing his hard cock against Sherlock's, clad in bespoke trousers worth at least half a month's rent. John imagines Sherlock struggling – a bit – but he’s been a soldier, he’s sure he could effectively overpower that lanky (if wiry) boy to yield to his whims. Push him down onto his knees, for example. Oh, and what John could then do to him…

He's seen Sherlock starkers. That's unavoidable if one's flatmate has the habit of wandering the shared rooms just wrapped up in a thin sheet. So John has quite accurate data to extrapolate from. He knows that the dark hair between Sherlock's legs surrounds a strikingly impressive cock, even in its flaccid state. It's long and rather thick and John wants to see Sherlock's elegant pale fingers wrapped around it, wants to make him tug rough and firm, then to slow down and just tease himself a little, until Sherlock’s creamy skin is flushed pink and he's positively gagging for it.

John leans back against the door as he imagines Sherlock on his knees in front of him, hard cock in hand, the fully exposed glans glistening wet, begging John to be allowed to touch himself more thoroughly. But John would just shake his head and in response, Sherlock would positively growl with frustration, deep, impatient and raw. The thought of tantalisingly drawing it out, denying Sherlock his immediate satisfaction and of Sherlock obeying him until he’s about to beg for John’s cock in his mouth and his hands between his legs sends a new gush of hot blood to John’s groin. He has to push a hand down the front of his denims to take himself in hand eagerly. Despite his pants growing much too tight, he just hastily undoes three buttons. There's neither time to undress properly nor to get some lube. John’s rock hard and leaking as he finally starts to avidly stroke himself to completion. Last night he’d been too anxious and affronted to take care of the intoxicating arousal holding a vulnerable and half naked Sherlock in the bathroom had provided but now, there's no other option but to deal with this, fast, hard and desperate.

John visualises a writhing and struggling Sherlock as he feeds him his cock: impossible lips stretched tight, the head of John’s prick rhythmically hitting Sherlock’s soft palate; he’ll be gagging and spluttering, drooling even but John would hold him firmly in place, his hands gripping tight at the back of Sherlock’s head, entangled in sweaty curls. Oh, the sounds Sherlock would make while John fucks his mouth – needy guttural whimpers, resonating low and deep inside his body, muffled by the hard rod of flesh forced down his throat; and John could actually feel it: the expression of Sherlock’s wanton abandon, as he comes into that filthy mouth that, for once, wouldn’t be spitting vitriolic insults but instead would be effectively coughing up John's spunk, dripping down his chin.

Indulging in these vivid mental pictures, John’s balls tighten and he bites down hard on his fist. His fingers blur flying on his cock and he's sweaty all over. Imagining Sherlock's pale naked body afterwards, trembling, glistening wet, makes his vision go fuzzy on the edges and then John sees himself licking up that long neck, tasting salty dampness there before pushing his tongue into _that mouth_ that just a moment ago had accommodated his squirting, twitching cock. This is about all it takes for John to come so hard he nearly folds in half. His knees buckle as he spurts all over his fingers and rather impressively onto the floor boards. When he's finally spend, John crouches down onto his heels, his back still pressed against the door for support, gasping heavily with closed eyes.

If he would be honest with himself, he’d have to confess that, deep down, he knows it's wrong. You shouldn’t fantasise this way about your flatmate, the man you share your living space with. It's unhealthy and invasive. Well, at least it would be if Sherlock knew. Or would it? Perhaps he wants it as badly as John.

But fearing for his sanity and self-respect, John, for the love of god and all that is holy, won’t put this specific hypothesis to test in the foreseeable future.

\-----

Sherlock has retreated to his bed and now cowers on the duvet, knees pulled up to his chest, arms clutched around them, rocking back and forth.

No, no, no, no, _no!_

He wants to scream, to thrash, to drive matches under his fingernails and stick pins into his eyeballs!

John is his friend. His best friend. His only friend.

This can't be happening.

But Sherlock had noticed John looking at him in that peculiar way.

And then John had touched him.

Very tenderly.

Sherlock doesn't understand how this came about. He'd never... insinuated … anything.

But they are past squeamishness now.

Sherlock is shockingly aware of John wanting him. In _THAT_ way.

Filthy.

Inappropriate.

Dirty.

OK.

Relax.

It'll be fine.

He will deal with this.

Needs must if the devil drives.

He'll get by.

Sherlock listens, pricking up his ears. His body is alert, tense and his wrought up nerves finally force him to retract, to close in on himself as his world shrinks to the space illuminated by his bedside lamp. He hugs his legs tighter, rests his forehead against his kneecaps, inhales, exhales, inhales.

And thinks.

Minutes pass.

Finally, he lets out a breath he didn't knew he was holding, then slowly unfolds.

There’s no point in delaying the necessary and inevitable. He’d hoped that his declaration at Angelo’s had exorcised all inclinations John might have harboured at the time regarding the character of their relationship in general and Sherlock’s proclivities in particular but maybe he’d been mistaken. Amorous penchants are really not his strong suit, as is conversing about them. Perhaps he should have been more explicit? But then, he’d barely known his new flatmate then. And he’d honestly needed someone to share the rent with, so why drive the up till then only willing and apt applicant away by overemphasising a denial of perhaps totally uncalled for extended benefits that might or might not have been anticipated by his lodger but were surely never ever implied by Sherlock in the first place? Sherlock’s usually not that cautious, but in this specific area, he’s always thought letting sleeping dogs lie to be the safest route.

But as he had proven so many times, John can be quite dense and persistent – a combination Sherlock more often than not finds most useful – so perhaps living together, sharing a kettle, a shower and a sofa, has raised some expectations on John's part? 

Sherlock has to concede that he's grown quite attuned to the ex-army doctor over the last few months. John's a benevolent and inoffensive sounding board, a hoard of trivial but sometimes unfortunately essential knowledge outside Sherlock’s realm (celebrity gossip, for example, something Sherlock refuses to pollute his hard drive with), obligingly does the shopping, generously pays for their cabs and, overall, has turned out to be much less of a nuisance than anticipated. It's no wonder that Sherlock actually grew quite … no, not fond, that would imply feelings Sherlock is incapable of … but accustomed.

Yes, accustomed. An acquired taste. Sherlock might even miss John should he suddenly be removed from his vicinity (at least after a few days, as it actually might take Sherlock a while to notice John's absence).

So, to stop things from escalating and thereby deteriorating further, Sherlock leaves his room and goes upstairs to tell John off unmistakably, once and for all.

He shortly hesitates in front of the closed door to the upstairs bedroom, however, to gather his thoughts, preparing himself for a probably very unpleasant encounter – and then freezes.

For Sherlock can hear John on the other side of the door and his current occupation is unequivocal, even if he desperately tries to silence himself.

Sherlock strongly wants to abscond, to delete this unwelcome experience, distancing himself from this new found insight into John's libidinous pursuits but somehow his fingers seem to be glued to the doorknob.

He can hear John panting.

The man is standing right on the other side of this door, penis in hand, touching himself, while the manifest object of his desires is but inches away from him; so close, yet completely out of reach.

Sherlock can't move.

Images flood his mind, details of a picture he dares not to focus in its whole blinding sublimity. It's terrifying but compelling:

Honey-coloured, slightly freckled skin, sprinkled with sparse blond hair shimmering a reddish gold in warm sunlight. Strong sturdy hands with short clipped nails, the fingers dextrous and surprisingly soft, their touch gentle but sure. Thin lips, a bit chapped but warm and wet and insistent. Determined strokes, eager open mouthed kisses, slick skin sliding against hard muscle.

Sherlock tilts his head forward and lets his brow rest against the dark wood, closing his eyes. He exhales sharply through his nose as not to sigh. His left hand is still on the handle, while the fingertips of his right hand just barely touch the door frame, hovering there.

Sherlock actually shivers when he senses John climaxing.

As the man on the other side of the door slowly slumps to the floor, Sherlock's fingertips follow his downward slide, brushing delicately over the prominent grain of the worn wood. He inhales deeply and is almost sure to smell John's scent – aseptic cleanliness, starched cotton, Earl Grey; now mixed with fresh salty sweat and the slightly sour aroma of milky ejaculate.

The rattling of a belt buckle hitting the floor brings Sherlock back to his senses.

Mortification might reach an up until now unexplored level if he'd been discovered lurking behind his flatmate's door, listening to John masturbating. Even Sherlock is aware of this.

He silently sneaks down the stairs, then pauses in the kitchen. The door to his room is ajar but suddenly the thought of being confined to the dimly lit space is a threatening menace; Sherlock fears sombre impulses lurking there in the shadows, luring him into uninhibited actions followed by loss of control, and he can't allow that!

He clenches his fists, tries to even his breathing, then opens the door of the fridge. There are fresh eyeballs (displaying signs of Marfan Syndrome) in the crisper. Lovely! He might just try to dissect the Zonular fibres, and see what he'll be rewarded with. Perhaps a nice Glaucoma. This delicate process would need his undivided attention and concentration, thereby taking his mind off … _things … issues … John_.

A quarter of an hour later, Sherlock's got his stuff set up on the kitchen table: microscope, slides, scalpel, tweezers, plastic container full of glibbery oculars, some with the optical nerve still attached. It says a lot about the serene quality of their living arrangements that John, as he emerges from the stairs on his way towards the bathroom, does not even raise an eyebrow when noticing what Sherlock busies himself with.

They are passing like ships in the night, silently but both highly alert, aware of the other's presence while keeping their safe distance.

Sherlock wills himself to not look up from the eyepiece but stares down the lenses unseeing. He has to stop cutting, for his hands suddenly seem unsteady. He doesn't want to ruin the specimen.

Still, he listens to John's bare feet plodding into the loo, the rattle of the shower curtain as it is pulled open, the gargling of water in the pipes as John turns the taps, the low hum as the boiler comes to life; then, the rustling of fabric …

Even a bowl of eyeballs with fully developed Fungal Keratitis couldn't distract Sherlock now.

He almost bounces off his stool and flees into the sitting room, coming to rest his hot face against the icy cold glass of the window overlooking a dark and empty Baker Street.

\-----

“You all right?” Sherlock nearly jumps as John's voice hits him out of the blue, the sound waves impinging on his body right between his shoulder blades, making the hairs at Sherlock's nape stand on end. He won't turn but has to.

They face each other in their gloomy sitting room.

John's just clad in a towel. Sherlock can't make out more besides his solid frame but it's due to lack of light, not effort. Oddly, he feels caught red-handed and trapped.

A car passes by, the headlights brushing over the ceiling, highlighting Sherlock for just a fraction of a second, like a bolt or the unearthly rays of an Aurora Borealis. The image burns itself on John's retina.

'God', John thinks, 'he's so fucking beautiful. And totally unaware. He has no idea what he does to me.'

Then Sherlock clears his throat and his voice is even a shade lower than usual, slightly husky, when he answers briskly: “Of course I'm all right.”

It takes all the strength he can muster to stride past John, back into the kitchen, lowering himself onto his chair; to preen down his microscope as if it's about to reveal the panacea for all human suffering, from the common cold to back taxes.

“Ok.” John realises that he's nearly naked in their freezing sitting room. Sherlock, of course, is totally unfazed, ignoring him over – Jesus Christ, are these human eyes? - whatever mess sitting on the slide he's concentrating on. “Fine. Uhm... I'm off to bed, then.”

Sherlock still doesn't so much as bat an eyelid. John is very aware of his flatmate’s stillness, because the light from the eyepiece illuminates the upper half of his etheral face, his eyes shining almost turquoise.

“Good night, Sherlock.” John turns and altogether runs up the stairs, fearing otherwise a second round of wanking might be called for.

“Good night, John.” Sherlock whispers as he hears the door above pulled shut, his hands gripping the kitchen table so fiercely that his knuckles have turned white.


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tension rises and John meets someone. Sherlock - despite his fears and doubts - nevertheless strongly disapproves...

_I'm curious to know exactly how you are_  
_I keep my distance but that distance is too far_  
_It reassures me just to know that you're okay_  
_But I don't want you to go on needing me this way_

**_Hüsker Dü - Don't want to know if you are lonely_ **

 

The next few days are strange, despite the sanest times being fairly mad at 221b. Sherlock is quieter than usual. He makes himself rarre, mostly stays in his room. John's glad to escape the gloomy atmosphere of their flat to attend locum work at the surgery on Friday.

The weekend turns into a nightmare. Sherlock potters about but gets more and more irritated as experiments don't bring the desired results and there’s a heartfelt shortage of alluringly bloody murder. As if to provoke one, Sherlock bangs doors and shouts at no one in particular, before rushing out of the flat in a surge of billowing coat and bad temper just as John reclaims the sofa to watch the news at ten.

Sherlock disappears until noon the next day, when he crashes into their flat, looking slightly dishevelled. He doesn't even bother to answer John, who politely feels obliged to offer some breakfast but just makes for his room, flopping face down on his bed without even taking his coat off.

John, by now rather peeved, just shakes his head, shrugs, then leaves to meet Stamford for a pint or two at Mike's local. It's a pleasantly normal afternoon, as they talk shop and rugby while downing some not too fancy craft beers.

John tries to make innocent conversation, inquiring about dinner but his attempts are not deigned with an answer. Instead, Sherlock only huffs in annoyance and turns to face the wall, pressing his forehead into the battered Union Jack cushion.

There’s an almost untouched mug of tea on the coffee table; next to it sits a white bottle of pills.

“Hangover?” John asks gleefully, before he reads the label. It’s tramadol. “Seriously, Sherlock, don’t you think that’s a bit over the top?” John sounds equally concerned and angry.

Sherlock just hunches his shoulders and pulls the hood down over his unwashed tousled curls. John does neither cease nor concede defeat.

“That’s prescription only. Who, in god’s name, would prescribe you…” He’s cut short by Sherlock almost bouncing off the sofa, striding over the low table and stalking off to his bedroom, slamming the door shut.

_‘OK, back to square one.’_ John clamps his mouth shut and just stares after his flatmate, perplexed, tablets still in hand.

As he has no idea what might have got Sherlock’s knickers in a twist, John spends the evening watching telly, sipping on a can of Boddington's while munching a sandwich, followed by a packet of crisps he’d located at the back of a cupboard, where it had slipped behind a rice cooker (Who knew they had such a gadget? But then, Sherlock probably boils maggots in it, or uses it to sterilize his scalpels.) Anyway, John’s happy enough to have unearthed something edible. Food is not a given thing in their kitchen.

As he eats his supper, John has the best intentions to follow an episode of Midsummer Murder but as the story unfolds, he catches himself imagining Sherlock's pejorative comments on the thin plot and after half an hour even John knows who's done it. He doesn't make it to the second pod but falls asleep on the couch, the open can resting precariously between his thighs.

He wakes in the small hours, cold and stiff. The TV is still on, showing extremely boring footage of famous scenic railway journeys. In the dim light, John can just make out Sherlock, hunched vulturelike on his chair, knees pulled up to his chest, scrutinizing him.

“What?” John asks, tired and fuzzy, his voice husky and rough from sleep.

Sherlock still doesn't talk to him, just stares and it's unsettling and feels disconcerting.

John empties his stale beer to wet his dry mouth, pulls a face, then gets up, swaying slightly. He yawns and stretches himself, spine cracking and is suddenly uncomfortably aware of Sherlock still watching him. If he notices that John's t-shirt is yanked up as he raises his arms above his head, displaying at least two inches of toned stomach as well as a trail of downy golden hair disappearing beneath the waistband of John's trousers, he doesn't avert his eyes.

“See anything you like?” John mumbles sleepily and Sherlock snorts before turning his face away, his mouth a thin hard line.

“What time is it?” John inquires, just to say something and finally Sherlock condescends to answer.

“Two twentyfour.”

“Jesus.” John rubs a hand over his face. “Fuck. Why didn't you wake me up? How long have you been sitting there, watching me drool on my shirt?”

“Three hours eighteen minutes,” is Sherlock's crisp and precise answer.

John sighs. “That's actually a bit … creepy.”

_'Not as creepy as your wanking habits'_ , Sherlock wants to retort but – even if John does not believe this to be true – he has a sense of common decency; pointing out to your flatmate that you know about his secret sexual proclivities might almost always be frowned upon, to say the least. So Sherlock just shrugs his bony shoulders. He's still not facing John.

The silence stretches and it's becoming awkward. John looks down at his bare feet, then up again at his flatmate. It's too dark to be sure but John's quite certain that Sherlock is observing his movements from the corner of his eyes.

“Well, never mind. I'm off to bed.” John gathers his plate and the empty can and takes them into the kitchen. He just sets everything on top of the counter, too tired to clean up, before coming back into the sitting room. Sherlock's staring into the void vacated by John's body, his face tight and pinched.

“You should sleep too. You look knackered,” John dares to suggest but Sherlock doesn't move or give any sign that he has heard, so John only sighs once more before turning to climb the stairs.

Just as he has settled in for the night and is about to close his eyes, wriggling under the sheets to find the most comfortable position to sleep in, he can hear the violin start screeching downstairs. It's not even a proper tune, just painfully shrill noises.

"God almighty!" John mutters under his breath and pulls a pillow over his head but that doesn't really help. Sherlock works his strings into a crescendo that sounds like as if he’s scraping barbed wire with a chain saw and after suffering for nearly ten minutes, John can't take it anymore; he storms downstairs, just in his boxers, and throws open the living room door, sending it crashing into the wall, shouting: “For fucks sake, Sherlock, put the bloody strings down, or I swear I'll smash your sodding fiddle!”

Sherlock actually lowers the bow, glancing slightly irritated at John. “That would be a tremendous loss to music, given that I play a W. E. Hill violin at least a hundred years old.”

“Well, then perhaps you should consider stop playing it _after_ midnight. There are people here who have to get up in the morning!”

“Are there? Certainly not you. All you have on tomorrow is a visit to your utterly incompetent if time consuming shrink.” Bow and violin each dangle from one of Sherlock's hands at his sides.

“You utter … dickwad! First, that's none of your business and second, I'd like to sleep anyway!”

“You just slept three hours straight on the couch!” Sherlock points out to him, looking piqued.

“That might be enough for a nocturnal git like you but it's not remotely enough for me! So, please, could you refrain from tormenting me with Stravinsky or whatever and JUST.BE.QUIET!” John yells the last three words to emphasise his point. Sherlock just frowns.

“It was Alban Berg!” he states miffed.

“I don't care! Just shut the fuck up! I want to sleep!”

“Don't take your frustration out on me!” Sherlock hisses back, and suddenly, the two men stand at loggerheads while the room fills profusely with aggressively male testosterone. They glare at each other. John clenches his fists. Sherlock carefully puts his violin and bow down onto the table, then pulls himself up to his full height, his eyes never leaving John’s face. John in return puffs out his chest. Sherlock notices John’s taut biceps expanding under the slightly freckled skin of his upper arms, pectorals twitching beneath short curly fur. He can also see John’s scar; it’s the first time he gets a good thorough view of it but the moment is ruined, because Sherlock is not able to focus on the damaged skin, despite all his senses heightened and his nerves singing with anticipation.

They seem about to engage into a fight any minute. Sherlock's pulse hammers in his ears. John starts sweating. Seconds tick by.

“You want to hit me.” Sherlock seethes in a low voice. “Go on then, do it.” It's a harsh whisper, a challenge, inviting John to give in to his darkest desires.

And John has to admit – at least to himself – that Sherlock is right. Nevertheless, John can't take his eyes off Sherlock. Suddenly, the man seems so alive; flesh and blood instead of the detached genius he presents to the world. John desperately wants to touch him but not in a tender way. He wants to throttle the infuriating prat, closing one hand around this long pale throat; wants to shake him while his curls bop, fists clenched tight around Sherlock’s sinewy upper arms; wants to beat some sense into him, his fist splitting Sherlock’s plush arrogant lip as it crashes into it forcefully, drawing blood.

Something primal and wild rises inside John as the urge to hurt threatens to break the smooth surface of well behaved, domesticated demeanour, shredding the last barriers of John’s self-control to pieces. He imagines his core principles and ethical standards burning like bright beacons until all that's left of them is smouldering cinder. It would be so easy. It would be so good. 

At least before guilt and remorse would eat John alive. So instead of giving in, John takes a deep breath, turns on his heels and marches up the stairs, his back rigid, his jaw set.  
After a few moments, Sherlock takes up the violin again. But he refrains from playing something provokingly modern and opts for a more catchy Bach tune.

John listens to the soothingly predictable music until he falls asleep.

\----------

John meets her at Speedy's the next day. He's just on his way to see his therapist but wants to grab a coffee first (of course, there's not a drop of milk up in the flat, as neither John nor Sherlock had bothered to get some; but given he found something to eat last night, John thinks he shouldn’t push his luck). She's standing in the line in front of him – small, ginger, delicate curves – and orders a soy Latte. As she's served, she turns bright beet root and – while frantically searching through her purse – stutters helplessly: “Sorry, I just … oh, no, I thought I had at least a fiver on me... my flatmate must have taken it... I'm so sorry...” She trails off, utterly embarrassed.

_'I know exactly what you're talking about_ ,' John thinks and steps forward. “How much do you own?” he asks and Mr. Chatterjee retorts: “Two pounds fifty.”

“Write it on Sherlock's tab.” John suggests and the woman turns towards him, still flushed but when he smiles, she simply smiles back. There's a small gap between her front teeth, which John finds rather charming.

“Thank you. That's … rather sweet of you.” Her smile broadens as she takes John in, looking him up and down, obviously approving.

“No problem. I'm a regular. I live upstairs.” John volunteers.

“Oh, do you?” She arches a wispy plugged eyebrow. “I just work around the corner. Applegate, Simmons & McFarlane.”

“That's a hell of a name. “John retorts and she laughs as he extends his hand. “I'm John.”

“Abigail.” They shake hands. 

Their eyes meet and linger.

She finally breaks the spell, grabbing her Latte and making for the door. “Thanks a lot, John. You made my day. I promise to pay you back.” She winks at him and then she's gone. Mr. Chatterjee smirks over the counter as John leaves for his appointment in a much lighter and relaxed mood than usual.

\-----------

Late Monday afternoon, Sherlock is back on the sofa, napping. He dreams of an auditorium surrounding him and, as a thousand eyes watch him, a small voice says, _"Don't be afraid"._  
He can see a thousand hands held up in the sky and believes to hear more voices in his mind that hum "Don't be sad; it's just your time, go, make a ladder of your spine, let every rung be stepped and climbed, make hummingbirds from your insides and let your face turn into vines and let your teeth and bones rewind. But realize, now, that you were only walking light, so let it go back down and shine on everybody that you loved when you were alive."  
And then there's John and Sherlock wants to ask: “Would you wait for me, even if I was removed from our time and died?” But he just screams in horror as his body disintegrates, until John whispers softly: “Well, don't cry, 'cause it's only the last part of life and I'm still by your side. And it will happen to you like it'll happened to me and the rest of the people we know. Like the summers all end and trees lose their leaves and the water turns back into snow. We're all here for a while, then we go, living for love and love alone. And you will be with those angels in disguises, cleverly holding their hands over your eyes to make from your nightmares the nighttime.” John is talking some more and it seems rather important but Sherlock only sees his lips move and can't understand anything, because there's suddenly another sound, sinking in, drowning out John's warm, reassuring voice...  
Sherlock is woken by the doorbell ringing (despite being disposed off into the fridge). He can hear Mrs. Hudson converse downstairs and then she climbs the stairs and steps into their kitchen.

Sherlock pretends to be dosing on the sofa.

After he's sure their landlady is settled downstairs in her flat again, however, he can't keep his curiosity in check. He gets up and walks into the kitchen. There's an envelope sitting in the middle of the table (thick, creamy paper, expensive, office stationary), and, despite being addressed to John, as it's not sealed, Sherlock opens it to peek inside. 

There's some change in it (two pounds fifty) and a handwritten note on equally high quality cardboard:

_"To John, my knight in shining armour. Fancy a coffee? This time, it's on me. Abigail"_ There follows a mobile number.

Sherlock is startled. Where the hell did John pick up a woman? He drops the card on the table as if it's on fire.

He needs data, so he walks down to Mrs. Hudson.

She opens when he knocks on her door.

"Sherlock...?!" It's both a question and an exclamation

Sherlock cuts her short: "Yes, hello, Mrs. Hudson, it's me, and that's my name. I know."

Mrs. Hudson smiles the smile of the long suffering back at him.

"I ... thought I heard the doorbell?" Sherlock inquires in what he hopes a casual manner.

Mrs. Hudson's smile changes. "Oh, yes, dear, a pretty young lass, handed in a note for John."

"How young?" Sherlock shoots back, frowning.

"Well, not underage..."

"How pretty?"

"A fiery shade of ginger, big blue eyes, nice bosom ... Sherlock, what's all this about, why are you pulling a face?"

"Dubious! Didn't you ask her some questions? Stupid! Enquired after her motifs, her name, her association with John, SOMETHING? ANYTHING?" Sherlock glares down at the old woman, who just tuts at him.

"No, I didn't. As far as I’m concerned, it's live and let live round here. Good day, young man!" And with that, she slams the door in Sherlock's furious face.

Sherlock stalks upstairs again.

John actually found himself a lady friend, behind his back! It's scandalous. It's almost ... sleazy.

But shouldn't he be relieved? John chasing after a skirt means he's not lusting after Sherlock – at least for the time being. Or could Sherlock probably been mistaken? After all, this is not his area...

But then he remembers John staring at him last night, exposing himself and he's sure that the aggression that had transpired across the room had been charged with subtle sexual undercurrent. John hadn't been sure if he'd wanted to fight him or fuck him, in the end opting for the easy way out.

So, what is Sherlock to make of this?

As far as he knows, the mysterious beauty could be a stalker, an unhinged fan, some snoopy journalist, or perhaps an agent of Moriarty's. And even if she's just some sort of romantic interest, as a good friend, Sherlock should save John from the perils he always gets himself into with affairs of the heart. He thinks of Sarah or the boring teacher he met at Christmas, who's name he's instantly forgotten and remembers John's mood after they dumped him: he'd been irritable, melancholic, absent-minded – in short, useless but rather strenuous.

What the eye does not see, the heart does not grieve over.

Sherlock rips the envelope and card into tiny shreds but pockets the coins.

\-----------

Luckily for both John and Sherlock, Lestrade is standing in their living room as John returns from Ella (and a quick round to the shops). Sherlock is calling the DI an imbecile and a moron, in the same breath insulting the rest of his division as a bunch of mentally deficient cretins, before shrugging on his coat and storming downstairs to hail a cab. When John shouts after him, asking what all the fuss is about, Sherlock just huffs theatrically, spins around on the stairs, makes some offensive gestures with his hands, barks “Case!” and is out of the front door within the next fraction of a second.

John turns to Lestrade in hope of an explanation but the Inspector just pats John's shoulder, excusing himself: “Hi, John, nice to meet you. Sorry, mate, I've got to dash, otherwise Sherlock will upset my whole team. You know how he can be. See you.”

And with that, Lestrade rushes down the stairs to board a waiting panda car, which immediately pulls off the curb before the door on the passenger side is pulled fully shut.

John is obviously and deliberately left out but he’s also too proud to send a text to Sherlock, asking if he needs some help, or at least to be told what the hell is going on. 

Instead, being left to his own devices, he might as well make the best of it. He cooks pasta and watches a DVD, once more balancing his plate on his knees as he eats in front of the telly, then turns in early. After last night, he feels entitled to some rest and if Sherlock is playing prima donna, pocketing all the fun and merit for himself, then John can be equally stubborn and give the twat the silent treatment (even if he's not sure if Sherlock will recognise it as such).

As it turns out, Sherlock spends the next days in Kent, investigating the nasty business of child abduction from a long-established exclusive boarding school. There are clues leading to Italy and when the decomposed body of one of the victim's teachers turns up, Sherlock is in full flow, running riot, until he tracks the culprit down. He rescues the child but the lad has to witness his abductor, who is also his half-brother, plummet to his death in front of him.

Meanwhile, John has no idea concerning Sherlock's whereabouts, as the consulting detective doesn't spare one sodding thought as to inform John of the developments, or at least tell him that he's all right. John's increasingly worried and seriously contemplates calling Mycroft, when Sherlock stumbles into their flat on Friday afternoon, his coat dirty, his bespoke trousers torn, soot under his fingernails, smelling very obviously unwashed for some days. His face is haggard, lips chapped, his hair's a mess and his chin even sports some surprisingly chestnut stubble. He starkly resembles someone from his homeless network.

But his eyes burn bright with glee and smugness and he doesn't bother to drink the hot sweet tea John presses into his hands, nor does he take the hint to shower, until John almost pushes him into the bathroom but not before he's finished the tale of his latest triumphantly solved adventure. John cannot help himself, he grins from ear to ear seeing Sherlock so utterly pleased with himself and therefore benevolently condescending towards the rest of the world.

While Sherlock showers and shaves, John orders enough Chinese to feed an army. The rest of the evening is spent with companionable chatter, interrupted by silly giggling and crowned by Sherlock presenting John the cheque the victim’s father wrote to him after the rescue of his son and heir, which Sherlock for once didn't refuse. It's a substantial sum that will see them comfortably through the next months if they are careful (which they aren't; Sherlock will buy a new and extravagantly expensive suit and John has to pay insurance and taxes; then there's a leakage in the pipes that needs fixing – which, strictly speaking, would be Mrs. Hudson's responsibility, but anyway, they are more than just tenants and landlady, and Sherlock _had_ fiddled with the valves; so the money will run through their fingers as usual, but at this moment, they both feel rather comfortably gratified).

It's almost like in the beginning of their friendship, when no shadows hovered over their doorstep; it's a jaunty evening and both men feel almost giddy with relieve that this is still possible.

These high spirits carry them through a weekend of reading, tea and telly on John's part and sleeping like dead, experimenting with concentrated hydrochloric acid and composing an etude on Sherlock's, respectively.

It lasts until next Monday morning, when John meets a noticeably dismissive Abigail at Speedy's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's dream is qouting "Fire", a song by Fred Thomas.


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has no idea what to say to that. He wants to scream _'Yes'_ and _'How am I supposed to know?'_ and _'What is happening between us?'_ and a million other things but that would imply admitting his confusion, so he stays silent instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was kindly as well as considerately beta'd by the very gifted **Lockedinjohnlock** , who not only reigned in my sometimes a bit overcomplicated writing but also added valuable advise regarding anatomy and pharmaceuticals.  
> If she doesn't plough through my stuff, however, she records marvellous Sherlock podfics in a wonderful English accent. Check her out on AO3 at http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock, it's truly worth it!  
> Despite her best efforts, all ensuing mistakes are entirely my fault.

_Your head will collapse_  
_And there's nothing in it_  
_And you'll ask yourself_  
_Where is my mind_  
**\- The Pixies -**

 

Sherlock can hear John talking to Mrs. Hudson downstairs but he doesn't pay attention. John sounds a bit agitated but then, their landlady can bring that out in you. Sherlock tunes them out and continues to sip his tea and read the paper.

His peaceful morning, however, is rudely interrupted when John crashes through the door and starts shouting. At first, Sherlock thinks his anger is still directed at Mrs. Hudson, but as words like “utter dickhead”, “selfish bastard”, “inconsiderate stupid fucking arsehole cunt” filter through the white noise of John's bellowing, it gets obvious that he is, in fact, abusing someone else (John would never call Mrs. Hudson a cunt, come what may). As there's no one else around, Sherlock concludes that the rant must be directed at him but it can't be that important as he's not guilty of any behaviour considered 'bad' or 'offensive' by John's standards (there had been no fire, no poisoned food and Sherlock is positive that John doesn't know about the human lung in the fridge, as it is carefully covered with tinfoil). 

Thoroughly convinced of his innocence, Sherlock keeps on reading a rather fascinating article about a burglary in Islington (it's one in a series of similar crimes and it's quite plain that the chartered maintenance contractor is involved, as all sites were served by the same company) until the paper is violently torn from his hands and Sherlock is forced to look into John's distorted, bright red face.

It rapidly becomes clear that some verbal reaction on Sherlock's part is required, so he raises an eyebrow before asking: “Sorry, what? I'd rather like to finish that.” Sherlock points towards the crumpled pages in John's clenched fist.

“You utter … dipshit! Where is Abigail's note? What did you do with it?”

Sherlock returns John's stare blank and slightly puzzled.

“What are you talking about?”

“What I am talking about? I just ran into a very offended and rather miffed lovely young woman in Speedy's, who, last Monday, gave me her number and asked me out for a coffee. But I never called, so I must have been 'taking the piss last week' – her words. But can you believe my astonishment when she told me after I nearly sank down on my knees to apologise, that she wrote me a note and I had to tell her that it never reached me? I mustn’t have been very convincing because she just rushed past me and wished me a good day in front Mr Chatterjee and a shop full of customers! Oh no, don't give me that wide-eyed _'I'm a genius, I can't possibly be expected to remember such mundane things as letters to my flatmate’_ look, ‘cos I know you, Sherlock Holmes! You found that note and hid it on purpose! You read it, discovered that someone was interested in me, and decided that this would undermine your control of my life, so you … what? Burned it? Ripped it to pieces? Ate it? WHAT?” John is actually furious. Sherlock is impressed by the accuracy of John's speculations – there is still hope left – but senses that complimenting John on his deepening insight in all matters Sherlock right now might be regarded incongruous. So he sticks with denial.

“I have honestly no idea what you are talking about.” He gives John his best innocently baffled gaze, all open, stunned and slightly offended. It usually works.

But not today.

“God, you … you freak! You can't even admit it! Are you seriously that desperate for attention? Am I not entitled to some personal space, a private life of my own? Just because you don't let anyone near you doesn't mean I have to spend my days lonely like you, or worse, lurking in the shadow of the great detective, fobbed off with mere crumbs, running after you and admiring you, playing dumb so you can shine all the brighter. This is sick, Sherlock, this is perverted and troubling and I won't allow this any longer!”

Sherlock feels utterly calm all at once. _FREAK_. John called him a freak. Ok. He can handle this. It's not the first time this has happened. Other people have labelled him much worse. Fine. This is how things stand now between them. Well... No need then to hold back any longer.

“How dare you call me sick and perverted? I'm not the one rubbing one out in my dark, solitary bedroom, fantasising about my flatmate. Have you seriously thought I'd miss how you ogle me when you think I'm not aware? Believe me, when I say to you that I am absolutely not interested, as I'm sure I made clear before. And even if I'd engage in such activities, you'd be the very last person I'd consider sharing my bed and body with. To be honest, if I hadn't been in such desperate need for a flatshare, I wouldn't have put up with you in the first place. What do you think you have to offer? You, a conventional, average, middle-aged invalid with anger issues?” Sherlock's voice has gone from mockingly contemptuous to pure vitriol in the course of his little speech, and he spits the last words out like something foul lingering on his tongue. A pounding vein stands out prominently on his forehead.

John has gone very pale. He has to take a deep breath, then another, and fights the impulse to instantly flee from the room like a four-year-old caught red-handed with his hands in the biscuits tin. He's a grown man, for god's sake; a soldier! He won't retreat!

“Oh, of course, the great Sherlock Holmes doesn't lower himself to the level of we, ordinary humans. You seriously think you need no one, do you? Who picks you up when you collapse in the bathroom, drugged to your eyeballs? Remind me, what was it last time, morphine or cocaine? Who feeds you up when you decide to stop eating until you look like an emaciated camp inmate? Who drags you up from the couch and puts you in the shower when you are drowning in self-pity during one of your black moods, failing to engage in even the most basic forms of social interaction? Who mops up your blood and vomit, tends to your injuries, and suffers your whims and tempers without saying one sodding word? It's me. It's always me!”

“No one asked you to do so! You are free to leave any time you want! In fact, I'd rather wish you would!” Sherlock slams his fist on the table hard enough to send the crockery rattling.

“Is that so? Would you rather your brother take care of you?” John inquires disingenuously.

“At least, he won't expect to get in my pants afterwards!” Such an openly salacious remark from his usually cagey flatmate (at least in this respect) would have been shocking to John a mere hour ago. As it stands now, he's past caring; cards on the table.

“Yeah, I fancy you. So what? Do you really expect me to coyly avert my eyes when you stride around the flat starkers? And your shirts! So clingy I'm sure your pectorals can be seen from space. Oh, I forgot to mention your total lack of regard for personal space. Standing always just a bit too close, casually brushing your fingers against mine, ordering me to feel you up while retrieving your bloody phone from your tightly fitted bespoke trousers. God, Sherlock, what am I supposed to make of this? Have you honestly never thought about what these things might do to me?”

Sherlock blushes. That can't be true. He'd never... “I … I don't do these things...”

“Yes, you do.”

“But not on purpose!”

“Do you think that matters?”

“But … but you are not … gay.”

“Do you really think _that_ matters?”

Sherlock has no idea what to say to that. He wants to scream _'Yes'_ and _'How am I supposed to know?'_ and _'What is happening between us?_ ' and a million other things but that would imply admitting his confusion, so he stays silent instead. 

John seems to take this as an invitation. He steps closer and now towers over Sherlock, standing between his spread thighs, and he's so close that Sherlock can spot the mark where John cut himself while shaving, just beneath his lower lip. Sherlock keeps his eyes fixed on the small wound while imagining John in front of their bathroom mirror, carefully dragging the sharp blade of his old fashioned razor over his cheeks, chin and throat, a small towel caught around his waist, his skin flushed pink and still slightly damp from the shower, nipples peaked in the cold air. 

Sherlock has to swallow hard and it must be clearly visible to John, who leans in just a little more. Sherlock feels pinned like a frightened deer in the headlights of an approaching bus. From the corner of his eye, he can make out John raising his left hand, and Sherlock nearly twists his optic nerve as he tries to follow John's movement while his eyes stay riveted on John's face, captivated by his small but rather enticing mouth.

John's palm comes to rests in the crook of Sherlock's neck and shoulder, his index finger brushing ever so lightly over Sherlock's pulse point and he can't miss the thrumming beat as Sherlock's heart rate speeds up perceptibly. John's thumb softly strokes the delicate skin of Sherlock's suprasternal notch, exposed above the frayed collar of his washed-out t-shirt.

And then John tilts his head just a fraction, dips his face and Sherlock inhales sharply as his eyes flutter close, only to blush a bright crimson when he hears John snicker next to his ear.

“God! You really thought …? Now, who's pathetic, Sherlock?” John’s voice is low and cruel as he seems to work himself up into a giggling fit and Sherlock is mortified, literally too afraid to open his eyes, but he forces himself to do so, only to see John striding towards the door.

“The last person you'd consider? I'll keep that in mind for the next time you play it cool.”

With that, John is gone and Sherlock is, at least temporarily, released. He sits, frozen to the spot at the kitchen table for a very long time while his tea goes cold and his toast goes dry, staring into nothing, barely breathing. His thoughts tumble and slither as he contemplates how to survive this latest humiliation from a man he would, up until this morning, have trusted with his life.

\----------

John doesn't come home in the evening, much to Sherlock's relief. He still feels embarrassed and ridiculed but has decided to completely ignore their fight. He hopes that John – being an average, conventional British male – will treat the issue likewise.

But perhaps it's time to move on? Mycroft has hinted at a Job for MI6, something on the continent, and why not? Suddenly, Sherlock desperately wants to leave London and all it contains behind.

He'd been smoking like a chimney all afternoon and the ashtray in front of him is overflowing but Sherlock doesn't care as he stubs out another cigarette. Ash and butts spill on the coffee table, probably leaving marks but so what? There’s no-one around to admonish him and even if there were, he wouldn't listen.

Christ, he sometimes hates his life!

As the evening progresses, it becomes increasingly clear to Sherlock that nicotine won't see him through the night. He perfunctorily argues with himself, but it's a lost cause from the outset. He tries to delay it, however, until he's too jaded to withstand the craving any longer. And where's the point of it, anyway? Controlled usage is not usually fatal and abstinence is not immortality. When he's sure that John won't return to Baker Street any time soon, he surrenders to his impulses and retreats to his room.

He's getting through his stash faster than anticipated. At this speed, he'll be in need of new supplies in four days. Sherlock hates the necessary interactions with the providers of his substances of choice. It's so … undignified, almost sleazy; even if he doesn't buy from shady individuals lurking in grimy alleyways or squalid council flats anymore, now that he can afford better. But the posh West End clubs or faceless hotel rooms are only slightly less sordid. Sherlock still feels stained when returning from his procurements.

He meticulously prepares a hit and out of habit goes for the cephalic vein. It'll be traceable but he doesn't care. If John sees, so be it. Serves him right! Sherlock doesn't bother to clean up afterwards, either, only hides the heroin behind the picture of Poe before staggering back into the sitting room to lie on the couch, his gaze fixed on John's empty chair. 

What had he really wanted this morning? John kissing him? Or John not kissing him?

God, why did he suddenly care?

But if he hadn’t wanted John to kiss him, why did he feel such loss? Shouldn't he be glad? He doesn't even like to be touched. He certainly doesn't want physical intimacy from his flatmate. Even though...

Shut up! SHUT UP! Sherlock rakes his fingers through his hair, pulls hard, until tears spring to his eyes; but the whispers in his head won't be silenced.

Remember the last time! _'Do you remember the last time?'_ Piss off, Mycroft! For all the voices to choose from, why has it to be his brother's? Fuck you, subconscious!

Apropos... Stop! Stop it! Now!

The skag should have worked its magic by now. So why is he still lingering on this rather unpleasant topic?

_Because you want it. Don't you, you filthy little slag? Come on, show me, show me how much you like it. You are gagging for it, I can see that._

It's not his brother's voice any more. Sherlock bolts from the sofa and smashes his head on the coffee table, as hard as possible. He tastes blood but has to do it a second time before, finally, everything goes quiet.

\---------

John finds him when he returns the next morning. Sherlock is lying on their sitting room floor, dried blood soaking the carpet. His curls are stiff with it and his face is black and blue where it is not covered in a rusty brown coating.

John curses under his breath, then kneels down beside the fragile body, feeling for a pulse. Sherlock is cold but his heartbeat is steady. John takes in the bloodstains on the coffee table as well as the fresh track mark on the thin arm he's still holding by the wrist and sighs inwardly.

“Oh, Sherlock, please, not again...”

He checks for other obvious injuries on the body, finds none, and very carefully pulls Sherlock up into a sitting position, his back against the sofa. Sherlock's head is lolling from side to side until John holds him by the chin to inspect the ghastly cut to his right eyebrow. The area around it is swollen, as is Sherlock's right eyelid. John pulls it open; the eye behind it is glassy, the sclera bloodshot. John gently starts to feel Sherlock's face and skull, searching for further subcutaneous injuries. His nose might be broken, and his lip is split. Sherlock's chin and throat are glazed over with dried blood. He looks like an extra from a particularly gory horror movie.

John props the side of Sherlock's head against the left armrest of the sofa, then moves to the kitchen to get a bowl of lukewarm water, some clean towels, and a bag of frozen peas. They always stock peas in their freezer. John needs them for one of Sherlock's favourite dishes, something homemade he actually deigns to eat; but to be honest, most of the time they are used at 221b as makeshift ice packs. 

As John starts to wipe at Sherlock's face, the man stirs and comes slowly back to life.

“John...” he whimpers. 

“Here, take these.”

John presses the cold bag of peas (considerately wrapped in a tea towel so as not to add freezer burn to Sherlock's battered face) against Sherlock's already clean forehead, then pulls Sherlock's right hand up to hold the improvised cooling aid in place, before he continues to dab at Sherlock's sore face.

Sherlock just hisses a few times but otherwise stays unusually silent.

When John has finished cleaning him, he removes the peas to take a long look at the gash on Sherlock's brow.

“That'll need stitches. Wait here.”

“I'm not going anywhere.” Sherlock mumbles, before returning the frozen legumes to his face.

Luckily – and from experience - John keeps everything he needs to perform basic surgery in a plastic box stored in the bathroom. But as Sherlock might need more than a local anaesthetic, John remembers confiscating Sherlock's tramadol, only to quickly abandons the thought. He's not sure what exactly Sherlock took last night but strongly suspects that it has been something you shouldn't mix with opioid pain medication. So, all that's on offer is ibuprofen. Its pain-killing properties are pitiful in the face of Sherlock’s injuries but it will, at least, begin the process of reducing the swelling. 

When John returns with his supplies to the sitting room, Sherlock hasn't moved. John takes the reading lamp from the desk and points the bright light at Sherlock's face, who winces, but John needs proper illumination if Sherlock is not to look like the monster from Frankenstein afterwards.

“Here, just swallow them.”

John presses two pills in Sherlock's palm, then reaches for the water bottle he's also brought with him.

“Drink. You are dehydrated.”

Sherlock obeys without a word.

John injects some lidocaine with steady hands, disinfects the wound (at which Sherlock inhales sharply), then stitches it up with expertise. Afterwards, he applies some antiseptic ointment and a gauze dressing.

“You look like a pirate.”

“Very funny.” Sherlock's voice sounds strangely nasal.

“Just let me have a go at your nose.” Before Sherlock can protest, John places his thumbs on either side of Sherlock's dorsal and suddenly applies pressure. There's the dull cracking noise of cartilage against bone, and then Sherlock screams in pain – a high-pitched wail – before sputtering: “Fuck, John, what the hell...?”

“I doubt you fancy looking like a booth fighter. Come on, get up, I'll get you to bed.”

John pulls Sherlock upright, then places one of the man's long arms around his good shoulder, while sliding his own around Sherlock's waist. He manages to half drag, half carry Sherlock to his bedroom like this, then lets him slump down on the bed.

John's eyes flick over the residue of Sherlock's last night venture on the bedside table, the sad paraphernalia of injecting class A drugs. The used glass syringe is a rather beautiful vintage type, elegant, slender, the silver plunger gleaming; the tube shows residue of blood and light brown flocculation. The sight makes John nauseous. He decides to deal with it later.

To distract himself from the atrocious evidence of Sherlock's morbid pastimes, John focuses his attention on his patient: “Your t-shirt is ruined beyond rescue.”

With that, John slips back into the kitchen and returns with a pair of sharp scissors. Sherlock watches, enthralled, as John starts to cut the soiled vest off his torso, splitting the bloodstained fabric up the middle, the silver blade brushing over Sherlock's abdomen and sternum. 

When he's finished, John stares down at Sherlock's naked chest, his peaked pink nipples and protruding ribs quickly rising and falling in elevated breathing. His mind goes back to the other night he saw Sherlock exposed, broken and injured like this and something hot and heavy like liquid lead starts to pool in his stomach. John's hands shake slightly as he tenderly pushes the rags from Sherlock's shoulders, his palms gliding over the firm cool ridges of Sherlock's scapulae.

“Do you remember what happened?” John asks, his voice a little bit rough but that can be attributed to the previous physical exertion.

“No,” Sherlock whispers barely audible and John knows he's lying.

John glances again at the small cabinet next to Sherlock's bed. “Is it possible that you took something and then fell off the couch high as a kite, hitting your head on the coffee table?”

Sherlock's eyes follow John's gaze; he shrugs. “Possibly...” His voice is even lower than before. John senses that his flatmate is ... ashamed. But Sherlock's never ashamed! The man went to Buckingham Palace in nothing but a sheet!

“Ok, enough for the moment.” John suddenly, only wants to get out of Sherlock's room. He needs some air, a coffee and a hot shower before he feels equipped to deal with … whatever it is that has actually happened here. “Lie down. Rest. You got a bit hypothermic, spending the night on the living room floor. I'll see to you later. Get you a tea or … something.”

And to John's endless surprise, Sherlock simply crawls into bed, pulls the covers over his lean body and curls himself into a tight ball.

As he closes the door he can hear Sherlock quietly say: “Thank you, John.”

This is getting odder and odder.

\---------

_Sherlock is again in the sitting room and has hardly settled in his chair before he is conscious of a thick, musky odour, subtle and nauseous. At the very first whiff of it his brain and his imagination are beyond all control. A thick, black cloud swirls before his eyes and his mind tells him that in this cloud, unseen as yet, but about to spring out upon his appalled senses, lurks all that is vaguely horrible, all that is monstrous and inconceivably wicked in the universe. Vague shapes swirl and swim amid the dark cloud-bank, each a menace and a warning of something coming, the advent of some unspeakable dweller upon the threshold, whose very shadow will blast his soul. A freezing horror takes possession of him. Sherlock feels that his hair is rising, that his eyes are protruding, that his mouth is opened, and his tongue like leather._

_The turmoil within his brain is such that something must surely snap. Sherlock tries to scream and is vaguely aware of some hoarse croak which is his own voice but distant and detached from himself. At the same moment, in some effort of escape, he breaks through that cloud of despair and has a glimpse of a man's face, white, rigid and drawn with horror. It speaks with an unsteady voice: “I owe you both my thanks and an apology. It was an unjustifiable experiment even for one’s self and doubly so for a friend. I am really very sorry.” The voice continues in a half-humorous, half-cynical tone: “It would be superfluous to drive us mad, my dear. A candid observer would certainly declare that we were so already before we embarked upon so wild an experiment. I confess that I never imagined that the effect could be so sudden and so severe _... Sherlock... Sherlock!”__

__Sherlock jerks awake. At first, he has no idea where he is. His head pounds, his mouth is dry._ _

__“Sherlock, you all right?”_ _

__John is touching his bare shoulder, gently shaking him._ _

__“What...? Why...?” Sherlock is disorientated but slowly makes out the familiar shapes of his bedroom. His breathing calms._ _

__“You were screaming.” John sounds genuinely worried._ _

__“Was I...? I … may have had a … bad dream.”_ _

__“You might be concussed. Look at me.” John lowers himself onto the mattress and turns Sherlock's face towards him._ _

__“It's nothing!” Sherlock protests._ _

__“How's your head?”_ _

__“I'm ok, stop fussing!” Sherlock bats John's hand away, then lies down again, pulling up the sheets. “Just let me sleep.”_ _

__John sighs in defeat. “I brought you some water. And a Mars bar. You should eat.”_ _

__“Thank you, Doctor!” It doesn't come out as acerbic as intended._ _

__“You’re welcome.”_ _

__Neither of them knows what to say next. Sherlock stares at the far wall while John regards him anxiously._ _

__“John?”_ _

__“Yeah?”_ _

__“Where were you last night?” It comes out part curious part self-conscious._ _

__“Can't you deduce it, genius?”_ _

__Sherlock turns and tries to blink John into focus._ _

__John has showered and changed. Still, Sherlock should be able to tell, despite his drowsiness. He rises to the challenge: “Random pick up at the pub. A bit younger than you. Dark-haired. Tall. Professional business woman, in town for a conference. A fellow doctor? No, research, so nevertheless, some common ground. She invited you to her hotel room, but you had to leave before breakfast. Reasonably satisfactory intercourse, at least on your part, judging by your relaxed posture, starting off with oral stimulation...”_ _

__“Thanks, enough!”_ _

__Sherlock frowns slightly, remembering a bit too late that his corrugators shouldn't engage in such an activity._ _

__“Well, you asked...” Instead of frowning, Sherlock resorts to pouting._ _

__“No, _you_ asked.”_ _

__They stare at each other until Sherlock shrugs indifferently and averts his eyes. His gaze gets caught on his bedside cabinet, now bare of his vice's accessories._ _

__“You got rid of … my stuff!” He observes accusatory._ _

__“Yes.”_ _

__“Seriously, John, do you think disposing of my appliances will lead me back onto the straight and narrow path of sobriety?”_ _

__“For the time being.”_ _

__Sherlock huffs with indignation. “God, do you have to be so … decent?” He makes it sound like a four letter word. “Any preoccupation with ideas of what is right or wrong in conduct shows an arrested intellectual development.”_ _

__“Get some rest, Sherlock.”_ _

__\----------_ _

__When Sherlock wakes again, it's dark. He desperately needs to piss. Carefully he swings his legs out of bed, then pads into the ensuite without switching on the lights in his room. In the bathroom, he only flicks on the small lamp above the mirror and is, for a split second, horrified at the sight that meets him: a ghostly white face, decorated with dark bruises, hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes, the right one swollen with a grim red gash above it. It reminds Sherlock vividly of the face in his dream, and he has to look away._ _

__As he washes his hands after relieving himself, the door is suddenly opened._ _

__“Sherlock, that you?” John's head peeks around the door. “I thought I heard something.”_ _

__“Don't you knock?” Sherlock feels cornered and steamrollered. He dries his hands somewhat defensively, aware of his mostly naked body. He's still just in his pyjama bottoms._ _

__John opens the door fully and lingers in the doorframe._ _

__“You're one to talk. How many times did you just walk in on me?”_ _

__Sherlock has no idea what to say to this, so he asks: “Does this aim in the direction of me having no sense of personal boundaries?”_ _

__“Maybe.” John licks his lips and continues to stare at Sherlock._ _

__“What?” Sherlock's voice is thin. His pulse speeds up. He feels exposed, as if on display, like some rare pet or an exceptionally tasty treat._ _

__“Nothing.”_ _

__Suddenly the air is thick, the atmosphere charged. Something transpires between the two of them, something Sherlock can't grasp, but it's happening nonetheless._ _

__“About yesterday...” John begins, but Sherlock interrupts him._ _

__“Please, don't... not now.” He tries to leave the bathroom, to get back to the safety of his own room, but John steps forward and grabs him by his upper arm, forcing Sherlock to turn halfway._ _

__“You want that to stand between us?” John's voice is a deep growl. Is that frustration? Or something else; something darker, menacing?_ _

__“I have no idea what you are talking about...” Sherlock snarls and tries to wriggle free, but John's fingers only tighten._ _

__“Stop that, at once!” John hisses. The pain in Sherlock's head gets nearly blinding. He's aware of John's thumb caressing his biceps, rubbing in circles over his cool skin. “God, you have no idea what you do to me.” It's merely a rough and heady whisper._ _

__Sherlock goes very still._ _

__John presses his forehead against Sherlock's bony white shoulder and Sherlock holds his breath._ _

__Then something soft and wet touches his Deltoid just where it covers his Subdeltoid Bursa. A moment later there's a sharp graze over his Acromion._ _

__John kissed him; now he's actually biting him. Sherlock closes his eyes and exhales shakily. If he doesn't respond, perhaps it will soon be over..._ _

__Instead, John's left hand starts roaming Sherlock's back, stroking his … Scapulae … then following his ... Rhomboideus Major muscle downwards, lingering above the … the … yes, Serratus Posterior Inferior, before reaching further down over his … Fascia … slightly massaging the … Gluteus Maximus …_ _

__Sherlock has to remind himself that this is John who's stroking his rigid body. It's rather … tender and Sherlock's stomach churns at the word. He hates all this careful, gentle, loving fondling, it makes him physically sick. Can't John simply go for what he wants and quickly be done with it? All this prolonging the inevitable is so silly, so utterly pointless._ _

__“John …” Sherlock's eyes fly open; his voice is tight with impatience._ _

__John's fingertips push beneath Sherlock's waistband._ _

__“Just let me, please, just let me...” John mumbles into Sherlock's skin, his hot breath ghosting over icy flesh._ _

__In Sherlock's (admittedly limited) experience, situations like these are best dealt with by blocking out all physical input. It's just transport and, therefore, can be ignored up to a point. If this point is reached, however, one does best, closes one's eyes, lies back and thinks of … well, some choose England. He prefers the periodic table. Reciting the Latin terms for the areas affected might also help, but proves insufficient at the moment._ _

__Protest, pleading and resistance are futile and humiliating and, therefore, should be avoided at all costs._ _

__If participation is required, it should be kept to the absolute minimum, while still meeting the demands (otherwise cooperation might be claimed forcefully)._ _

__Of course, there's always the last resort of closing in and leaving one's body. It's not a pleasant sight to watch from afar, but splitting body and mind is still preferable to consciously living through the whole ordeal._ _

__Following theses rules, Sherlock simply shuts down. His breathing slows, he closes his eyes. John's left hand rests on the small of his back. The other loosens its grip on Sherlock's arm and reaches for Sherlock's face. Dry lips are pressed against Sherlock's mouth, before a tentative tongue licks over the split lower lip, sucking gingerly._ _

__Sherlock doesn't scream, doesn't run, as John had feared, only stands there, rooted to the spot, rather shy but pliant, trembling a little. Good, that's good._ _

__“Let's take this to the bedroom, shall we?” John whispers against Sherlock's soft lips then grabs him by the wrist and tucks him into the darkness next door._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's dream is an almost direct quote from "The Adventure of the Devil's Foot" by Arthur Conan Doyle, only in the original story it's Watson who experiences as well as narrates the effects of the toxic root.  
> On other occasions, Sherlock resorts to citing Oscar Wilde, because, well, who could put it better?


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell. '_  
>  Crisis, pining and suffering finally lead to some kind of catharsis, relieving the tension at least temporally as John and Sherlock find some common ground. Yes, there's eventually some sex in this but it's neither easy nor straightforward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was kindly and thoroughly beta'd and britpicked by Lockedinjohnlock. She not only patiently amends my grammar and punctuation but is also a vital source on such diverse topics as ligature marks, pharmacology and anatomy.  
> Primarily she records great podfic (with a lovely English accent). Check her out at http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock  
> All remaining faults are mine and mine alone.

_If I could change my mind_   
_What changes would it bring?_   
_If I could change you_   
_Well, it wouldn't change a thing_   
**\- Hüsker Dü, No Promise Have I Made -**

Somehow, in the darkness, John touching him is even more repulsive. John's hands are all over Sherlock's body, who can't see, won't see, despite his eyes being wide open. The contact of skin to skin is random and totally unpredictable. Sherlock can't brace himself against the onslaught. John's heavy breathing echoes in Sherlock's head as sturdy hands stroke his shoulders, grab his waist, his hip, pull him close.

_Hydrogen – Helium – Lithium – Beryllium – Boron – Carbon – Nitrogen – Oxygen, yes Oxygen_ ; he can't breathe, the room is full of John's scent, sultry, thick, suffocating.  
John rubs his erection against Sherlock's upper thigh, moisture leaking through the thin fabric of his boxers, and Sherlock shudders as the wetness seeps through his pyjama bottoms and comes into contact with his quadriceps femoris.

_Fluorine, Neon, Sodium, Magnesium, Aluminium, Silicon, Phosphorus, Sulphur..._ We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell. Who said that? It's on the tip of Sherlock's tongue, but then John invades his mouth again, claims him, moaning while still rutting against Sherlock's sartoris.

_ChlorineArgonPotassiumCalcium..._ Now, John presses his thigh between Sherlock's and tries to spread his legs. His hands wander south, until his right palm cups Sherlock's penis – and stills.

_Scandium._

John freezes. Sherlock is soft and flaccid and finally, it seems to dawn on John that his flatmate might not be as turned on by his attention as he had supposed.

“Sherlock...?” John pants, slowly removing his hand.

But Sherlock cannot answer. He has to swallow a few times; there's nothing to be said.

Sherlock is not sure what to expect next. There are actually a few possibilities of how this might progress. John might laugh. Or start insulting him. In similar circumstances, he'd been called frigid tart, fucking tease, prude slut (quite an oxymoron, actually), as well as some more colourful names he's chosen to delete.

But frankly, while slightly humiliating, either would be preferable to John continuing his ministrations while muttering encouragement or threats, or a mixture of both ( _“Come on, you do want it.” - “You'll like it, just let me show you...” - “Now it's a bit late to get cold feet.” - “Get down.” - “Open.” - “Shut up!”_ ).

“Sherlock...” But there's neither menace nor coaxing in John's voice as he steps away and fumbles around in the darkness until he finds the switch of the bedside lamp. The warm light shines on his slumped figure on the edge of the bed. John covers his face with his hands and takes a few deep breaths before looking up at Sherlock, who simply stands rooted to the spot in the middle of his own bedroom.

John is still flushed from arousal, but his erection seems to have subsided. His fingers shake slightly as he rubs his face and sighs.

“You don't like it.” It's not a question but John seems to expect an answer, nonetheless.

Sherlock squares his shoulders and tries to get his trembling body under control by contracting his abdominal muscles.

“As always, spot on. Even if it took you some time to work it out. So, nothing new there. Was it my lack of commitment that gave me away, or didn't you become suspicious until groping my crotch, mistaking my reluctance for chaste ambiguity?” Sarcasm seems an adequate approach to the situation but John begs to differ.

“Stop this!” He sounds almost disgusted. Good! They are finally reaching some common ground.

“What? Don't you want to know about my attitude towards sensual input?” Sherlock's voice is sharp and strained.

“I'm sorry.” John whispers, casting his eyes down at the floor.

The words hit Sherlock harder than any abuse. If there's anything worse than invective, it's pity. Finally, anger rouses Sherlock from his numbness.

“Don't be. It's not your fault.”

John looks confused.

“No, I mean... I didn't mean... to… take advantage. I thought you were... amenable.”

Sherlock turns his face away.

“As I told you, I do not engage in this sort of activity.”

“Well, honestly? You've been sending mixed messages on this topic lately.”

“No, I haven't. You just never listen properly.”

“And yesterday morning?”

“No.” But his protest sounds weak even to his own ears. “At least, I don't think so.”

“Whatever.” John coughs then pinches the bridge of his nose. “How long would you have been standing there, letting me rut against you? All the while... ?” John can't bring himself to speak it out loud. For speaking of it makes it real.

“I don't know.” That's a lie. But why give John even more leverage?

“Why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you stop me? You have a black belt and the most vindictive tongue in London!”

“I don't know.” Another lie. Once started, it gets kind of addictive.

“Sherlock... ”

“Go. Just go away! Leave me alone.” Sherlock turns and strides over to the window, his back to John. He's tense, his voice cold, detached, betraying no emotion.

After a minute, John gets up. Before he pulls the door shut, he pauses in the doorway. “What would have happened if I hadn't stopped, hmm?”

“That's a question you should ask yourself.” Sherlock's tone is dismissive but not accusatory.

“Oh, I certainly will.” John sounds… sad. Not disappointed or angry, but rather, unhappy and frightened.

What on earth could John be frightened of?

\-----------

Jesus fucking Christ!

What the hell just happened?

Did he just nearly violate his flatmate?

Sherlock?

God Almighty!

John feels mortified. Embarrassment doesn't even begin to cover his frame of mind. There is no hole deep enough for him to hide in.

John drowns the second glass of water while leaning against the sink in their brightly lit kitchen.

Sherlock had seemed… willing. He hadn't told John off. He didn't pull away or knock him out with some deadly judo choke to John's carotid or trachea. He'd simply been very… quiet. John had attributed that to shyness. For all he knew, Sherlock didn't have very much experience in this specific area.

Had he been wrong?

True, Sherlock had told him he didn't do sex.

On the other hand, there had been all these little incidents over the last few weeks. And yesterday, he'd been quite… keen. John is sure of this, no matter what Sherlock tells him. John's been around the block; he knows about these things.

Ok, fair enough, John's own conduct in this matter hadn't been inspiring confidence; he had harboured his own secret desires. And yesterday morning, he had mocked Sherlock. Perhaps he went too far there. But, honestly, what did the arrogant prick expect after calling John a boring ugly twat he wouldn't even touch with a barge pole? John had just fed Sherlock his own medicine, teasing him a little. He hadn’t even been sure if it had registered with Sherlock. Well, it probably had…

Thinking about it, about all the crazy things that have happened in the last 36 hours, John grows cold with fear. He'd belittled Sherlock, then left without a word. When he had returned, Sherlock had been high on class A drugs, lying unconscious on their living room floor, bleeding onto the carpet. Was there a connection? Were the incidents related? Cause and effect?

Did Sherlock shoot up, then hurt himself on purpose? The thought is unbearable. Nevertheless, John is a doctor. He has seen a lot of weird coping strategies.

But why Sherlock? He's made it quite plain that he isn't remotely interested in John. So why should John leaving and spending the night with a random stranger trigger such bizarre behaviour?

Or is John simply deceiving himself, deflecting from facing that he would have… what? Continued to touch Sherlock? No, that sounds too benign. He'd wanted Sherlock, in every sense of the word. And he would have taken him, claimed him. He'd been tempted to continue even after recognising that Sherlock wasn't really into it. He'd thought about talking him around. No, it hadn't been such a high cognitive function as thinking – more base, carnal need to touch, rut, rub; own. Yes, the primal urge to capture and seize.

Resistance being part of the game.

Truth be told, if Sherlock hadn't been so utterly, frighteningly still and subdued, John would have pinned him to the mattress and shagged him blind.

This is becoming more and more unhealthy.

So, what is he to do about it? He could hide. He could play dumb. Or he could face his responsibilities. Silence might be Sherlock's weapon of choice, but it isn't John's.

He's been such a bloody creep. The least he can do is to apologise. Right now!

\----------

After John has left his room, Sherlock stands for a long time at the window, looking out but seeing nothing.

What the hell is it with him?

Yesterday, he'd kind of wanted John to kiss him. But today, as John finally, eventually did so, he'd just frozen, clamped up, shut down.

It had been John, for god's sake! It should be different with John. Why couldn't he just relax, enjoy, relish the attention?

He'd somehow longed for it – and now, as it is finally happening, he acts like a blushing virgin. Which he's definitely not – regardless of what Mycroft may say. His brother should know better, after all they've been through. Why can't he just endure John's advances until he gets used to it? He might even take to it. People do it all the time; it can't be that bad. On the other hand, people _are_ idiots...

But John wants it! Can't he just try and give his friend what he so clearly desires? He'd been shown what he might have to expect if he won't cooperate. That coffee woman he'd effectively fought off, but there will undoubtedly be others. For all he knew, John just hooked up with a random fling last night!

Useless. He's absolutely useless at this. This might have been his only chance – and he'd screwed up again!

Self-pity enhanced by self-loathing. Both are equally unappealing.

He still has supplies left. He could just lock his door and drug himself into oblivion. He's quite sure John won’t bother him again tonight – if ever. And even if he did, perhaps a little smack-induced stupor wouldn't go amiss? Would John notice?

Now that Sherlock has experienced how much he craves to bond with another human being, he feels all the more humiliated and gutted at how ridiculous and futile his endeavours must appear. A leopard can't change its spots. He is but a repressed, immature aberration of a man, grotesque in body and mind, abnormal and repulsive, unable to connect; a sociopath if there ever was one. 

So why does he bother? Why does he try? Why can't he accept that some things will never feature in his life: care, liability, fondness, affection?

He has other things with which to occupy himself: The Work; his intellect.

Better a brain on legs than a slave to one's sentiments.

Caring is not an advantage!

Eventually, Sherlock switches of the lights as he retreats to his large, empty double bed. As much as he would like to share it, he's too afraid to allow for the candour that would be required to do so.

He curls in on himself, his knees pulled up to his chest. He wants to cry but he hasn't cried since he was a boy when his beloved dog had been put down. Redbeard had been old and very ill but it had been a blow; the first of many. If he'd only known back then how life could really fuck you up...

Suddenly, his door creaks. Please, not again! He can't cope with anything more right now. So he feigns sleep, closing his eyes, breathing evenly. But John is not remotely fooled by that.

“I know you’re awake.” His voice is pressed but not unkind.

“What is it now?” Sherlock sighs, exasperated, before turning around to face John with a huff. He blows a thick wisp of black curl out of his sore eye and settles his chin on his crooked elbow.

To John, he looks about fourteen in the dim light streaming in from the hallway.

“What’s happening to us?” Sherlock is shocked by how desperate John sounds and that must be showing on his face, as John takes a step forward, his fists clenching. “I am not like this. You know I'm not like this,” he continues, sounding pleading, defensive. “But all this,” John makes a vague gesture that encompasses not only Sherlock and his bedroom but all of 221b, “it’s been building up for quite some time, now and I don't know what to do about it. I'm sorry if I'm babbling, I'm certainly not as eloquent as you but I truly hope I'm getting the message across.”

Sherlock stares back, unblinking; his eyes, two black holes in his bruised face. John isn't sure if it's just the effect of the light playing on his features.

“Whatever. I sincerely want to apologise for the liberties I've taken with you.”

At this, Sherlock actually smiles. It's a genuine, spontaneous smile that transforms his whole expression. John feels a small flicker of hope bloom inside.

“You sound like someone from a Catherine Cookson novel,” Sherlock teases but there's no malice in his voice.

“Shall I tell you one of my best-kept secrets? I simply love a raunchy bodice ripper. Mrs Hudson and I swap them.”

“That explains rather a lot.” Sherlock smirks. The atmosphere loses some of its tension.

“Yeah, but can we please stay on topic?” John is not in the mood for their usual banter.

“I'm all ears.” Sherlock's smile becomes mask-like again, a mere movement of muscles without the underlying emotion.

“Fine. Uh... that's fine...” John trails off. This is so fucking hard.

“John?”

“Please, this is not easy for me... but… honestly… where do you stand regarding all… this?” Again, John's hand makes an indecisive gesture but now it's more a weave between the two of them. John vividly imagines the cogs in Sherlock's head turning. “Please, I know that must sound rather brazen, coming from me, but don't think too much. Just say… something.”

“But I'm sure you want a considered opinion?” Sherlock is bargaining to conceal his insecurity. He's clearly biding his time and John groans in frustration.

“All I want is an honest answer, not some kind of elaborate excuse.”

“I don't know.”

“Sorry, what?”

“That's my honest answer, then: I don't know.”

“You don't know?” John repeats flatly. He'd hoped for something more decisive, an explanation, perhaps, but well, it's not a _'no'_ and neither a _'go, fuck yourself'_ , so it could be worse.

“How about you?” John is surprised at the blunt question from Sherlock. Usually, he's way more subtle.

John purses his lips but then, what is there to say: “I thought I made myself quite clear about half an hour ago. And, well, you deduced the rest of it yesterday.”

“But that was… before...” Sherlock trails off, too inhibited to name and describe John’s earlier doings.

“Before? Oh. I don't know if it’s any consolation to you but if you think being turned down changes how I… feel… for you, then you are quite mistaken. I hope that's not too distressing?” John has turned a delicious shade of pink.

Sherlock just shrugs. “So, where does this leave us?” Neither man can look at the other. Sherlock twiddles with a thread of the duvet while John scrutinises the ceiling.

Talking to the plaster is somehow much easier than speaking to his omniscient flatmate. “Well, I still fancy you rotten while you are undecided. That's... something to work with, I think?”

John finally finds the courage to meet Sherlock's gaze. The nod is barely perceptible but John registers it anyway.

“Ok. Fine. Great. That's settled then.” John coughs, unsure of what else there is to say. Plenty, apparently, but he feels exhausted and tired and exposed. So he retreats. “Good night, Sherlock.” That said, John turns and starts to leave, only to be called to a stop by Sherlock's voice as he's half way through the door.

“John...?” It sounds meek, very unlike Sherlock. John faces him again, a bit surprised. Sherlock is not meeting John's eyes, still fussing with the strand from his quilt.

“Yes?” John slowly asks as nothing else is forthcoming.

“Could you...” Now it's Sherlock's turn to clear his throat. “Would you… consider… staying the night?” There's actually a lovely pink flush spreading on Sherlock's high cheekbones.

John swallows, hesitating, stalling.

“You sure?” He finally croaks.

“Yes. Yes, I'm sure.” Their eyes meet.

“After all… you still want… me… in your bed?” John is baffled.

“Well, yes. Oh, just to sleep, of course.”

“Of course.” John echoes, hastening to agree.

As he still stands, rapt, in the doorway, Sherlock scoots over to the far side of the mattress and finally John is able to move again. He steps back into the dark room and tentatively climbs into bed next to Sherlock, cautious not to touch.

It's a bit awkward at first, as both men lie in the dark, on their backs, just breathing. John can smell Sherlock's scent in the sheets and pillows and it's intoxicating. When he dares to move he turns on his side and, as Sherlock had the same impulse, they suddenly face each other.

John snorts a laugh: “Hello there. As they say, great minds think alike.”

Sherlock can't suppress the laughter bubbling up in his throat, half nervousness, half genuine amusement.

Even with a good ten inches of space between them, sharing a bed feels utterly intimate. Therefore, sleep is the last thing on each man’s mind.

John summons up all his courage and dares to ask, “Earlier, when we, you know... what happened? I mean, you invite me to your bed but you can't stand me touching you. It's a bit… confusing, at least for someone ordinary like me.”

“You are not ordinary, John.” Sherlock's voice is a low deep rumble that makes John's hair stand on end.

“Yesterday you told me otherwise,” John murmurs softly.

“I said a lot of very stupid things yesterday,” Sherlock concedes.

“So did I.”

They both fall silent until John chuckles: “And once again, you successfully steered me away from the issue I wanted to discuss. But at least it was with an admission of fallibility on your part. That counts for something.”

“I'm not going to talk about it,” Sherlock states a bit abruptly.

“What, your fallibility?”

“No, the other… issue.” There's obvious disdain in Sherlock's tone and John suddenly knows that he has reached a dead end. There's stubbornness and then there's Sherlock.

“Ok. Perhaps some other time, then?”

“Don't get your hopes up, John.”

Suddenly, John is not quite sure what exactly they are discussing anymore.

“Good night, Sherlock.”

“Good night, John.”

That said, Sherlock turns away from John, closes his eyes and – for the next hour – tries very hard to fall asleep. But he is wide awake in the dark, his heart beating fast, aware of John's presence, which is not uncomfortable or disturbing, only a little unfamiliar. And – he reluctantly admits - quite exciting. John, on the other hand, is emotionally exhausted to such an extent that he simply slides into a narcoleptic state of unconsciousness the minute he closes his eyes

\----------

Eventually, Sherlock must have fallen asleep also, for he wakes up entangled not so much in the sheets but in John. In his still-sleepy state, it takes Sherlock approximately 2.3 seconds to realise that their legs are entwined and his left arm rests across his flatmate's stomach while his head is pressed between John's shoulder blades. John's left arm is slung over his face, shielding his eyes, while he clutches the pillow with his right.

Sherlock instinctively flinches away but his jerky movements disrupt John's slumber though he's not wholly awake yet. Following the heat of Sherlock's body, John scoots backwards and grabs Sherlock's left wrist to keep him in place while the other man tries more and more hectically to disentangle himself.

“Shlck, what the hell? Stop fidgeting!” John mumbles, his speech slightly slurred from sleep. He pulls the hand he's holding up to his chest, their entwined fingers coming to rest on John's sternum. John sighs contently as he wraps Sherlock's long arm around him like a shroud.

“Good morning, John. Now, as we are both awake, can you please let go of me?”

John squeezes his eyes shut, smiling. “Please tell me that's a tyre lever you have stored in your pyjama bottoms for some crazy purpose. Or are you that pleased to see me?”

Sherlock knows he should feel mortified but all he can do is smirk. “I'm sorry, John. I can assure you, it's nothing personal.”

“That's what they always say.”

“Oh my god! This is totally inappropriate.” Sherlock giggles helplessly.

“I don't mind.” John finally opens his eyes and turns slowly around. “Morning, gorgeous.” He strokes back a wayward curl from Sherlock's forehead, still smiling at his flatmate. His hand brushes the side of Sherlock’s neck, around to his nape, lingers. Sherlock holds his breath. John’s hand continues to slowly wander down along Sherlock's spine, fingertips barely brushing over protruding vertebrae. Sherlock can't help it, he shivers and his eyes flutter close as John reaches the waistband of his pyjama bottoms.

John has been watching Sherlock for signs of… aversion, but so far, this seems all right. John rests his brow against Sherlock's sharp clavicle, inhaling deeply, at first smelling only sweat and detergent. Underneath, however, there’s the familiar sharp scent of Sherlock (hydrogen peroxide, tobacco, something sweet John can't quite fathom) as he closes his eyes to just savour their easy but surely short-lived closeness.

As if on cue, Sherlock tries to shimmy away. But John is not yet prepared to let him go, so he reflexively grabs Sherlock's arse and holds him where he is. 

“Don't...”

“Why not?” John whispers, opening his eyes and fixing Sherlock with an unmistakable stare from hooded dark blue eyes.

“Because...”

“Yeah?”

“I don't know. It's just...”

“What?” John's voice is low, seductive and enticing, full of wicked promise. He presses his thigh just a little bit up and between Sherlock's legs and Sherlock's hips snap almost involuntarily as he ruts against John, his body seeking friction while his mind struggles to catch on.

“I...” Sherlock croaks. “I really shouldn't...” John's right hand tightens, but he's not pushing or pulling, just keeping Sherlock in place. No demand, only an offer.

“It's ok. It's all right,” John murmurs encouraging, but suddenly Sherlock pushes back, violently, finally freeing himself from John's grip, panting hard. John lets go of him until there are again a few inches of safe distance between them.

Sherlock's eyes are dark. He's lying on his back, staring at the ceiling and his face and chest are flushed pink. His erection protrudes blatantly from his concave belly, tenting his faded cotton trousers and he seems actually rather forlorn as his hands jitter at his sides.

“You want me to do something about that?” John asks matter-of-factly.

“Certainly not!”

“Then _you_ should do something about it. It looks... actually painful.”

Sherlock snorts.

“Well, do as you please. I hope you don’t mind…?” John proffers. At the rustling of fabric, Sherlock turns his head, only to catch John pushing a hand inside his own boxers. He seems to be in much the same state as Sherlock but has much less trouble dealing with it. John's right hand is gripping his hard cock, gently stroking, while his left peels his pants off to fully free his erection for better access. Clever fingers rub his foreskin back and forth over the glans, revealing a glistening fat head; Sherlock licks his lips as he watches John's fist speed up.

“Like what you see?” John's rough and husky voice hits Sherlock low in his stomach. He forces himself to take his eyes from John's cock and raise them to his face. There's a bead of sweat on John's brow and upper lip and his pupils are blown wide, his usually light blue eyes now an intense deep violet.

As an answer, Sherlock's cock gives a sympathetic twitch. His gaze returns to John's groin, as if drawn there by an irresistible force.

John bites his lip and softly moans. Pearly fluid wells up from the slit and is put to good use as lubricant. After a few more strokes, however, the hand slows down until John's just teasing his shaft, tracing the prominent vein on its underside while his other hand lazily plays with his balls. Then John spreads his legs, wide (and Sherlock knows it's for his benefit as much as John's), puts one foot on the mattress and exposes himself quite unashamedly. The fingers around his bollocks wander further back, gently stroking before diving between his cheeks. The angle is difficult and seems uncomfortable but after John squirms a bit, his cock gives a visible jerk.

“Watch me,” John breathes but he needn't have worried; Sherlock is enthralled. He scoots down the bed until he's lying on his stomach, his face in the open vee of John's legs – giving him a perfect view of John's cleft and crotch. John's only able to press his index finger in up to the first knuckle but that seems enticing enough. He takes up a seductive rhythm as the fist on his cock starts to move in unison.

From down here, Sherlock cannot see John's face, but he can hear him pant and groan. Sherlock has to bite his lip hard not to join him until he draws blood from the cut on his lower lip. However, as John adds the tip of his second finger, stretching his tight hole visibly until it eventually relaxes from his ministrations, Sherlock starts to come undone, his self-control wearing thin, becoming frayed at the edges. He presses his uncomfortably hard cock firmly against the mattress and starts to rut, moving his pelvis in shallow circles. The sudden friction is absolute bliss as he wriggles and writhes and finally can't stop himself as a low moan escapes his mouth.

In response, John's fist blurs at his shaft as he gasps desperately: “Sherlock, please, let me hear you, please...”

But Sherlock has pushed two fingers into his own mouth, sucking hard. He imagines them to be John's, drawn from his arse and stuffed brutally down Sherlock's throat. All he can do is hump and rub in ecstasy as his orgasm crashes over him. His abdominal muscles nearly cramp while his whole body shakes violently but he doesn't avert his eyes from John's arse and cock. John's balls are drawn tight against his pubic arch. He's close.

“Can you go deeper?” Sherlock rasps, his voice unsteady and raw. John is past speaking and can only growl in response as he tries to intensify his pleasure, nearly twisting his arm while rocking down onto his fingers. The dry stretch must actually burn but John seems to relish the pain. His hole is swollen but he pushes in relentless. The veins on John's lower arm have protruded to the surface and Sherlock can see every muscle and tendon work and tense.

John spreads his legs even wider; pulling his knees up as he tries to insert a third finger but it's too much. He almost screams as he squirts thick streaks of come from his cock, dripping down his fist. Sherlock watches in fascination as John's hole flutters and contracts around his fingers, while his thighs tremble and quiver. He seems to come for an entire minute.

John breathes hard as he finally removes his fingers from his arse and turns onto his side, his knees almost hitting Sherlock in the face. John's body is drenched in sweat and Sherlock has to fight the urgent impulse to lick at him, taste him. He follows John's rather clumsy movements as he carelessly wipes his sticky hand on Sherlock's expensive sheets and Sherlock briefly entertains the possibility of sucking John’s fingers into his mouth, tonguing them until they are clean.

As Sherlock feels his own body sag, he becomes aware of the wet spot he's lying in and turns on his side as well. His face is still on a level with John's now spent but still slightly thickened cock. It's impressive both in length and girth, surrounded by wiry curls a darker shade of blond than the rest of John's body hair and now decorated with dollops of drying semen. Sherlock can smell him and inhales deeply. Glorious.

“Come up here, you lewd thing,” John sighs avidly, totally spent. He pats the pillow next to him and Sherlock budges up. They look at each other, both dishevelled and dazed and John is the first to start snickering.

“Got quite an eyeful, did you?” He asks, while giggling so hard his eyes water. Sherlock cringes at the innuendo but John's laughter is contagious and soon they are both shaking with it.

“You should take these off before it gets too gooey,” John manages to get out between two bursts of laughter, pointing at Sherlock's soiled pyjama bottoms.

Sherlock looks down in disgust. “God, I haven’t come in my pants since I was a teenager.” He shoves the thin cotton fabric down, then offers it to John for a clean-up. Sherlock turns on his stomach, allowing John a marvellous view of the ridge of his hips and arse.

“Circle jerk behind the bicycle sheds? Or maybe the boat house, since you certainly went to some grand posh institution with one or other royalty and a future prime minister?” John has no idea if Sherlock actually attended boarding school but judging by his voice he definitely didn't go to a mediocre comprehensive. If he had, he would have been teased, mercilessly.

“How would I know?” Sherlock forces a smile. The memory strikes him with bright clarity, unfiltered and, therefore, all the harder. He can smell weed and damp wool; the ground is muddy and slippery beneath his soaked knees. Large hands fiercely cup his head, forcefully tearing, shoving. A groan and then someone laughs, deep and vicious. Sickening fear mixed with repulsion floods Sherlock's system and threatens to choke him. If John only knew how close to home he just hit with his guileless jabbering...

“I need a shower,” Sherlock states as he abruptly rises. John wonders briefly if all this is a bit much for Sherlock, but in his woozy state can't be arsed to ponder on it. They are both adults, for God's sake! Sherlock didn't protest; in fact, it's evident that he enjoyed them making out. Truth be told, in John's definition, this didn't even count as a shag. There had been no touching, no kissing. Just a mutual wank, then. Mates do such things, don't they?

“Be careful with the stitches, though.” The doctor in John feels obliged to remind Sherlock. “I'll take a look at your cut when you've got dressed.” With that, John rolls onto his stomach and buries his face in the lush pillows of Sherlock's warm bed to savour a few more tranquil minutes of post-coital rest.


	8. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things seem to progress nicely between John and Sherlock - at least John thinks so. It's all rather new and a bit odd and awkward but as he's dealing with Sherlock, what else did he expect? Only, John might have got something truly and profoundly wrong about his flatmate...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again marvelously beta'd by Lockedinjohnlock, who, even as she was snowed under, found time to work her magic on this ridiculously long chapter that I threw at her feet. She recorded some exceptionally great podfic recently, to which you can listen here: http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock

_But I'll follow all your orders and you can't have all of me_  
_While I sit back and think of how I used to be_  
_There ain't nothing left to do but dream_  
_What if all these fantasies come rushing in at night?_

-Screaming Females: Hopeless -

Sherlock sits on one of their kitchen chairs, turned around so he can brace himself, his arms folded on top of the backrest between his spread legs. He's naked down to his waist, so as not to soil another shirt. John has just pulled on his striped terry cloth robe. He hovers over Sherlock - allegedly dabbing at the stitched-up cut to his eyebrow but in fact losing himself in the oscillating shades of Sherlock's slate-coloured eyes - as a knock on their door makes him nearly jump.

“Huhu, boys, are you decent?” Mrs Hudson chirps from the stairs.

“Always, Mrs Hudson.” Sherlock shouts back and John has to hide a smile while feigning intense concentration on Sherlock's injuries.

The door swings open and their landlady enters their kitchen, frowning, first at the state of their household appliances, then at the state of undress of her tenants.

“You call that decent, young man? Lounging around half naked at noon?”

“I'm not lounging. John is inflicting some rather superfluous medical treatment upon me. I'd be therefore much delighted if you could discourage him, Mrs Hudson.”

“Are you hurt, dear?” Their landlady steps closer as John moves to the side (only slightly annoyed by Sherlock's objection to his attendance). As Mrs Hudson becomes aware of the damage to Sherlock's face, she puts a hand to her mouth before sighing sympathetically. “Oh, my! I hope you gave as good as you got.”

John has stepped away and peels off his latex gloves, seemingly fascinated by the encrusted dishes piled up in their sink and says nothing.

Sherlock just shrugs, then grabs his shirt that has been dangling from a nearby chair and starts to button it up.

“I'm so sorry to bother you with this,” Mrs Hudson continues, still looking slightly worried at Sherlock, “but it's my bridge evening tonight. And it's my turn, we'll meet up downstairs. I was wondering if I could borrow some chairs?”

John faces her and smiles. “Of course. How many do you need.”

There's some negotiation as to the number and type of required seating; John ends up carrying all of their kitchen chairs downstairs. He has to nudge Sherlock's shoulder to get him to evacuate his current stool, giving him a pointed stare but Sherlock has better things to do than move their furniture around. There's the lung still waiting for him in the fridge. Cutting it up on their chopping board earns him another look from John - this time rather horrified but as the good doctor seems mollified by their earlier shenanigans he just retreats to the shower before going for a prolonged walk. When he returns, he carries bags filled with spicy Thai take-away (Sherlock had lost track of time while dissecting the organ; it's actually gone dark) but insists on Sherlock first cleaning everything up before laying the table.

They can hear Mrs Hudson's guests arrive as they eat. Sherlock, for once, seems famished as he shovels hot fried rice and roasted duck, dripping with peanut sauce, into his mouth. Laughter rises up the stairs and the mumbling voices swell into shrieks of joy and groans of frustration as the evening progresses.

John tries to read but his gaze more and more often wanders over to Sherlock, who's sprawled on the couch, watching something on the telly while simultaneously browsing through the Journal of Communicable Diseases (charming), which he only puts away now and then to furiously type something on his laptop. After one exceptionally shrill squeak from downstairs, however, he raises his head, almost catching John staring at him. John quickly looks away, but he's not sure if he’s been quick enough.

Sherlock frowns in slightly amused horror. “Honestly, bridge?” he asks. John only shakes his head. “Who'd thought...” The words hang between them. Sherlock still watches John but doesn't seem inclined to put more words behind his thoughts. 

John shifts in his chair. “What?” he asks, sounding slightly confused.

“Nothing,” Sherlock retorts but he's not returning to his magazine. Instead he switches off the telly and sits up. He has opened the two top buttons of his shirt and John is transfixed by the dark hollow of his suprasternal notch. His mouth goes suddenly dry and he has to swallow hard before speaking again.

“Maybe Mrs Hudson dished out some of her herbal soothers?” John offers.

“Or spiked the nibbles with it?” Sherlock muses darkly.

“Whatever. I'm off to bed.” John puts his novel upside down on the armrest of his chair before escaping to his room. Last night had been challenging and keeping up appearances of everyday life at Baker Street over the past twelve hours (not even talking about IT; refraining from pressing Sherlock against the nearest vertical surface to ferociously snog and grope him) was at least equally arduous. John just needs a break.

He has slid into bed and switched off the lights when he hears soft footsteps on the stairs. Then the floor boards in front of his bedroom door creak; there's a tentative knock. 

John lifts his head from the pillow.

“Come in.”

Sherlock stands in the doorway, barely visible.

“What is it?” John enquires tiredly. He expects some silly demand or odd question (like “Where did you put my blow-torch?” or “Why's there no turpentine left?” that is, things Sherlock would typically request at eleven thirty at night). That's probably why he's taken aback when Sherlock asks in a rather endearing (because obviously forced) casual way: “May I bunk in here with you tonight? Mrs Hudson and her friends seriously shatter my nerves.” 

At first, John is too surprised to answer. Then he says the first thing that pops into his head: “Why bother? I'd thought you don't need to sleep...”, before realising that this has probably been the most stupid thing ever to escape his mouth. He shuts up but it's too late; Sherlock has already turned on his heels and is storming down the stairs.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” John groans, then literally jumps out of bed (barely escaping toppling over as his feet get tangled in the sheets) and dashes after him, grabbing Sherlock's arm as he reaches the foot of the steps.

“Sherlock, wait! I'm such an idiot. You said so yourself. Please, I'm sorry...” He's babbling frantically in his effort to reassure Sherlock, who just stands in the dark hallway, tense and silent. “Of course you can come up. It's just... I didn't know you cared … or wanted.”

Sherlock's voice is cold when he replies: “I don't want to put you to any trouble.”

“Sherlock, please... don't...”

“It's fine. I understand perfectly.”

“No, you don't, you stupid wanker. Look at me!” Reluctantly, Sherlock turns around. It's too dark to make out details but John is aware of wide eyes and the pained line of Sherlock's tight mouth. “I have no idea where all this between us is heading. I don't know what you expect or want or need from me. I've never done anything like this with a bloke. Honestly, it's a bit terrifying. Especially with you. So, please... I'd very much like to share a bed with you.”

He can feel Sherlock relax just a fraction. There's another wave of noise emanating from downstairs and both men wince. “Better get your stuff. I'll see you upstairs.” John squeezes Sherlock's arm once before climbing up to his room again.

About five minutes later, Sherlock follows. He's in a fresh pair of pyjama bottoms and an old t-shirt and smells of soap and toothpaste. John's bed is significantly smaller than Sherlock's; the mattress is hard and the sheets are cheap. John is briefly worried that Sherlock will leave again soon but he doesn't so much as arch an eyebrow as he settles in for the night. The confined space makes sure that they lie closer together than they would downstairs and that's something John doesn't mind _at all_.

They lie face to face in the darkness, uncertain and slightly intimidated, listening to each other's breathing.

“All right?” John asks rather unimaginatively after a minute or two, just to break the awkward silence.

“Yes.”

“It's not as lush as your bed.”

“I assure you I've slept in worse places.”

John feels a little affronted. “At least it's quiet,” he bristles.

“Not really with you trying to make meaningless conversation.”

John is suddenly not sure if this has been a good idea after all. He pouts mutely until Sherlock starts to speak again.

“John?”

“Mhhh?”

“I tore it up and threw it away.”

“What exactly are you talking about, Sherlock?” John sighs. He's lost; for all he knows, Sherlock could be talking about that lung he had a go at earlier.

“The note from… what was her name? The woman you met at Speedy's?”

“Abigail.” John fills him in.

“Yes, right. It was an invitation, with her number. I ripped it to shreds. And took the money attached.” Sherlock sounds grave but not at all apologetic.

John knows he should be angry with Sherlock but all he can feel is mild amusement. “That might actually have been for the better, don't you think? Otherwise it could be getting a bit crowded up here.” He chuckles.

“Aren't you cross with me?” Sherlock enquires incredulously.

“No, Sherlock, I'm not cross with you.” John sighs.

There's a short silence after this statement.

“Ok. Good. That's… good night, John.”

“‘Night, Sherlock.” John still smiles as he closes his eyes.

\--------

Sadly, the next morning starts nothing like the last one. They are rudely woken by John's mobile at around six thirty. Sherlock's head rests low on Johns stomach (god, this could have been really promising under different circumstances) and John has to forcibly push Sherlock away then crawl over his warm, inviting body to reach for his phone. By the time he's answered the insistent ringing, they are both wide awake. It's the clinic. A stomach bug seems to have incapacitated half the staff and as there's a flu epidemic spreading. They are in urgent need of staff. Could John come in A.S.A.P.?

John sighs, heavily but dutifully gets up and dresses while Sherlock curses his 'pointless, unnecessary, galling occupation' in quite colourful language, almost whining with frustration as John runs downstairs to get at least a coffee before work. Of course, Sherlock's constant nagging makes it impossible to enjoy even this small comfort.

“Listen, they need me. It's an emergency. I'll be back soon. Stop bleating. Keep yourself occupied. Don't you have some body parts to entertain yourself?” With that, John steps out in the cold, dark London morning and makes his way to the tube station, already overcrowded with grumpy fellow commuters.

John has the best intentions to return to the flat straight after his shift but it's a very busy day at the clinic. Nevertheless, he sends a few texts to Sherlock in between patients but he doesn't deign to answer. John can sense him vehemently sulking, even at this distance.

As it turns out, it's one of the nurses’ birthday. Out of gratitude for all their selfless attendance, Sarah invites everybody round to the pub in the evening. John argues with himself but as Sherlock had acted like a prick all day, he opts for fun and a few pints. Hence, it gets quite late before he returns to Baker Street.

_______

The flat is unlit, chilly and silent. John checks the living room, kitchen and bathroom before knocking on Sherlock's bedroom door. There's no answer, so he hesitantly opens it to peer inside; the room is empty, the bed made and undisturbed.

Evidently, Sherlock has gone out without bothering to tell John where, not even leaving a note. Again!

Having been ignored all day, John feels way too miffed to send another text enquiring after Sherlock's whereabouts. Instead, he brushes his teeth in frustration before stumbling up the stairs to his room. He doesn't switch on the light, just undresses down to his underwear and it is only as he is about to climb into bed that he sense that something is… off. As he reaches out, his hand makes contact with a soft silky mop of hair. He lets his fingers wander over the warm, lean frame curled up in his sheets and joy bubbles up in his chest because Sherlock is sleeping peacefully in his bed. 

Of course, he has buried all the blankets underneath his lithe but – at least in sleep – surprisingly heavy body but John can't summon up enough irritation to get cross. Instead, he is strangely affected by Sherlock's presence and very glad that his flatmate is sound asleep and therefore unable to witness John's fond grin as he climbs into bed next to the world's only consulting detective.

John has to leave early the next day as well, as it is his usual early roster at the surgery. He writes a short note to Sherlock, who's still fast asleep and leaves it on the kitchen table.

_'Let’s have dinner. 8 pm at Angelo's?'_

He receives an answer even before squeezing into the stuffed car of the Metropolitan line:

_'Why are you never at home? Are you deliberately avoiding me? By the way, your mattress is killing my back and your taste in linen is outrageous. I feel positively scrubbed raw.'_

John takes it as consent to their date. He smiles all the way to work.

\-----------

John is six minutes late, due to a signal failure at Liverpool Street station. Sherlock already lurks at their usual table in the window. He's staring down at his mobile, an eerily greenish light illuminating his sharp features (the bruises are fading, he's just earned himself a rather dashing scar to his right eyebrow) and his pale eyes gleam nearly cyan. The sight makes John's stomach tingle, sending a thrill down his spine.

“You're late.”

“Just a few minutes. The tube, you know...”

“You should've taken that into account. The Metropolitan line is notoriously disruptive. That's why I never rely on public transport.”

“Will you bitch at me all evening, or can we order?”

“I'm not hungry.”

Oh, this is lovely!

“Well, I'll have the penne all'arrabiata and a glass of Pinot Grigio.”

“That's barbaric. You should choose a Fia Nobile Frappato or a Cerasuolo di Vittoria instead.”

“But I'd like a white.”

“Your tastes are abominable.”

“Make it a bottle, then.”

Sherlock watches John eat, fiddling with his serviette, rearranging salt and pepper, olive oil and vinegar, from time to time glaring venomously at the other patrons from under his lashes. John tries to enjoy his excellent meal but it's not easy in Sherlock's gloomy company. At least he's silent. John is spared Sherlock's, likely unflattering, deductions regarding their waiter and fellow guests.

Back at the flat, the mood doesn't improve. Sherlock throws himself onto the couch and refuses to answer as John offers to make coffee.

John finally flees into the shower. He's tired bordering on exhausted, stuffed with pasta, tipsy from his wine and, above all, he's thoroughly fed up with his capricious flatmate-come-bedfellow. This was supposed to be a nice evening but it's turning out to be a disaster. John feels snubbed. Why the hell is Sherlock acting so peeved? God, he can be such a twat sometimes.

John starts to furiously soap his body, as if by vicious grooming he can delete all romantic (and, if he's honest with himself, more base) notions from his mind.

When he returns to the sitting room, wrapped only in his robe, Sherlock is still on the sofa. He is now, however, perched on the edge, his back rigid, head bowed down. John just wants to go over and rake his fingers through his curls but somehow that feels inappropriate, since Sherlock has radiated pure discontent all evening.

“So... “John starts, then has no idea how to continue. He wants to say something innocuous yet reassuring but doesn't dare, dreading spiking Sherlock's temper even further, or – worse - frightening him off altogether.

Though, at the sound of John's voice, Sherlock raises his head and looks up, fixing John with an unreadable stare while sucking in his lower lip. John instantly realises that Sherlock's not sulking but thinking hard, giving him an air of perturbed fragility. His vexation is not directed towards John; instead, he seems profoundly irritated with himself.

John takes a step towards him, then another until he stands right in front of Sherlock, who has to tilt his head up to keep eye contact. John looks down at him, and it's an unusual perspective, for him to be towering over Sherlock. It's almost as if their roles have been reversed. John's the one to lead from here.

“Sherlock...” John begins, but falls silent as Sherlock's hands rise to John's belt. His dexterous fingers make quick work of the knot before brushing the fabric aside. John is naked underneath, his cock level with Sherlock's mouth. At the close sight of it, Sherlock's gaze becomes a little wary, as if his courage falters.

“What are you... ?” John can't continue, for Sherlock presses his nose into his pubic hair, right against the crest of John's groin and inhales deeply. His lips are but an inch away from John's balls and John can only shiver in anticipation as Sherlock exhales, breath ghosting over John's most sensitive parts.

Next, Sherlock licks tentatively at the base of John's cock, which is rapidly stiffening. He's just using the tip of his tongue and John realises that Sherlock is tasting him. John sighs and flexes his hands, still unsure if he's allowed to touch but when Sherlock rubs his nose against his shaft, he's past caring, knitting his fingers into Sherlock's silky curls, pressing him close.

Sherlock responds by parting his lips, mouthing along John's shaft until he reaches the crown. There, his clever tongue reappears, flicking against John's fraenulum. As John moans softly, Sherlock casts his eyes up, his gaze never leaving John's face as he sucks the head slowly into his hot, wet mouth. John feels himself blush as he watches Sherlock act out one of his favourite fantasies, as if he knew what John had dreamt about in the darkness of his barren room. He feels Sherlock's tongue circling his glans and the sensation is so intense that his knees nearly buckle. The movement pushes his cock deeper into Sherlock's mouth but instead of sputtering or choking, Sherlock takes him in easily, sucking him deeper, even hollowing his cheeks before pulling off with an obscene sound, to take a breath.

“Sherlock, have you ever...?” John's eyes roll back in his head and he is completely devoid of speech as Sherlock takes him in to the hilt, his nose bumping John's pubic bone. John can feel Sherlock's throat tighten around the tip of his cock as he swallows him down, tongue pressed flat against the underside. It's tight and wet and the friction is glorious and John gets close embarrassingly fast as Sherlock continues to go down on him with abandon. John starts to rapidly lose what little restraint he's been able to muster as his hips snap forward almost on their own account. He can't fight it, closes his eyes and gives in to his primal need.

John can hear himself grunt and huff as he fucks Sherlock's mouth, steadied by Sherlock's strong hands grabbing his arse, kneading his cheeks, digging his fingers in hard enough to bruise. The pain pulls John back from the edge; he dares to open his eyes again without fearing instant combustion; the need to see, to watch, to look down on Sherlock suddenly stronger than any precautionary measures to keep himself in check.

It's even better than John had imagined in his embarrassingly numerous self-administered orgasms. Sherlock's impossibly lush lips are stretched tight around his shaft, which is glistening wet with saliva. Sherlock sucks him in greedily and as John cups his cheek, he can feel himself move inside Sherlock's mouth. John's balls tighten as heat pools between his legs, making his cock twitch, but he doesn't want to finish just yet. He grabs the back of Sherlock's head and jerks, hard, pulling him back and off. Sherlock looks up at John then, but instead of dark and hooded, his eyes are cold and grey; his face a white marble mask displaying an expression of curious detachment mixed with determined scrutiny. There is no passion in his gaze; it's more like he's been performing some mechanical task he neither especially favours nor despises. 

John stills, freezes; his body desperately wants to continue while at least a small part of his brain that's not completely drained of blood (that's currently needed elsewhere) tells him to STOP. But his cock is achingly hard, flushed deep purple and leaking, bobbing up and down just a few inches away from Sherlock's swollen lips and John is only human, after all. He insistently nudges the glistening tip of his cock against Sherlock's lower lip, rubbing it back and forth, smearing it with clear precome. Sherlock simply lets him; he's gone still but doesn't pull away.

“I could just come like this, you know?” John's voice is husky from arousal. “All over your face. Do you want me to?”

Sherlock closes his eyes and swallows audibly. His lips curl into a sly smirk but a flush creeping up his cheekbones betrays him.

John yanks fiercely at his hair again as he doesn't answer, straining Sherlock's neck, making him hiss in surprise.

“I think you do.” John growls and starts to pump his cock with his free hand.

Sherlock licks his lips and something flickers over his face but John is too far gone to pay it attention. “Beg me,” John pants. “Beg me for my cock.”

“Please, John...” Sherlock's voice is rough and even deeper than usual. He might be shamming, but John doesn't really care right now, fisting his cock within reach of Sherlock's moist plush lips.

“Open.” John orders, breathy but determined. He's so close he's sure he won't last much longer. His vision has gone fuzzy around the edges; all he can focus on is Sherlock's inviting mouth and the sweet relief it promises.

“Make me.” Sherlock snarls and John lets go of his cock and tightens his fingers around Sherlock's chin, squeezing his lower jaw forcefully to get him to obey.

“Do as you are told.” John barks as he feels Sherlock's resistance.

“You can slap me if you want to.” Sherlock murmurs before darting his tongue out and lapping at John's glans and for a split second, John is so shocked that he has to grab Sherlock's shoulder so as not to keel over. He pulls away, one hand clinging to Sherlock's shoulder, the other one still around his jaw. Sherlock looks up at him, calm and composed, as if unaware of the flagrant lewdness of his offer.

John is bereft of an answer. What the hell is he supposed to do? His mind is foggy, but he's still dimly aware that the appropriate reaction to such a proposal would be to tell Sherlock to stop at once. Instead, John has to admit – although shamefully - that he is definitely turned on by Sherlock's proposition. He's torn between the urge to break off and have a proper talk and to take Sherlock up on it, tugging at his curls while shoving his cock right back into that willing mouth.

Sherlock is waiting, a look of intense concentration on his face. John knows that this is a crucial turning point in their… life. He experiences a kind of vertigo as he lets his fingers stroke Sherlock's high cheekbone tenderly before pushing his fingers into Sherlock's hair to pull him close again.

John is actually a bit disgusted by himself but Sherlock's lips part eagerly; he tries to go slowly but Sherlock is keen and very determined. John stills again briefly when the tip of his cock hits Sherlock's soft palate; he's afraid he might be hurting him but Sherlock only takes John's left hand and moves it down his throat, pressing it against his larynx. John can feel his cock swell and pulse, and then Sherlock makes a low guttural sound as he tries to take John even deeper and he's lost. His hips start pistoning in an erratic rhythm and he's sure he's choking Sherlock but he can't stop this, can't control this. His hand still rests just above Sherlock's Adams apple, holding on tight, almost blocking Sherlock's windpipe. John is too far gone to care, and then he's coming down Sherlock's throat while Sherlock sucks greedily, gulping for air, not spilling one drop as he swallows everything.

John makes a very undignified, rather animalistic noise as Sherlock finally pulls off. Both men are panting and John can't suppress the impulse to bow down and mash their mouths together in a frantic, messy kiss. Sherlock does not resist but opens so John can lick into him, deep and lascivious. John tastes himself and is nearly overwhelmed by his want to convey all his confused feelings to the suddenly so very pliant man in front of him. He wants to show Sherlock that this is good, could be really very good, that he should just let go and trust him and give himself over to the sensations. John wants to keep him close, stroke him, touch him, tell him that everything is all right. But despite Sherlock's display of patience and deference, John can also sense that he's barely tolerating John's overtures. Underneath his consent lurks, at best, thinly covered indifference.

Suddenly, this feels all wrong and strange, so John ends the kiss and tries to caress Sherlock's face but the detective turns away too abruptly, disentangling himself briskly from John's personal space. His demeanour is rather dismissive, unapproachable even. While John still tries to get his breath back, Sherlock simply gets up from the sofa and walks over into the kitchen where John can hear water running.

Ok... this has been… unexpected. Not bad, just … extraordinary, in every aspect. And a little bit unsettling.

John fastens his robe, standing in the middle of their living room, feeling a bit discombobulated, his head still spinning from one of the best blow-jobs he's ever had. Who would have thought Sherlock could give head like that? John would have put him down for a novice at best but he'd just proven that he could perfectly well repress his gag reflex, if needed. Not for the first time, John marvels that he might have got something truly and profoundly wrong about his flatmate.

As if on cue, said flatmate re-enters the living room and strides over to his desk, ignoring John completely.

“So, what brought this on?” John asks casually.

“I misbehaved. You were cross with me. So I ventured to make it up to you.”

John nearly chokes on his own spit.

“Sorry, what? Sucking my cock in our sitting room is your way of saying sorry for being an utter dick all evening?”

“Problem?”

John's not sure.

“You said I could hit you.” It comes out still rather shocked and a little bit sheepishly.

Sherlock turns towards John, blushing a little as he rolls his eyes. “You seemed to be genuinely enjoying yourself.”

“What about you?”

Sherlock frowns.

“What do you mean?”

John swallows. “I mean, what about your… needs? Do you want me to...” John trails off, unsure what he is prepared to offer in return.

But apparently, such considerations are not on the forefront of Sherlock's mind.

“I'm fine.” He answers too fast, tight-lipped and forbidding.

John sighs. A few minutes ago, he'd felt totally blissed-out, but this is rapidly going south.

“Sherlock, you don't have to...” John's sensible explanation is cut off by an exasperated groan: “For god's sake, John, stop treating me like a wilting flower! You neither ravished nor seduced me. I initiated it. I'm a consenting adult! I can decide for myself.” He takes up his violin and bow a bit too belligerently, aggressively turning the pegs to tune the instrument.

John's shoulders drop. He rubs his stubbly jaw and closes his eyes as Sherlock starts to play some slow, sad tune. John wonders briefly if Sherlock is aware how telling his choice in sheet music is but can't bring himself to ask. It has been a long day, after all. They are both adults. Consenting adults. Everything is fine.

But John can't refrain from asking: “Are you coming to bed?”

Sherlock stands by the window, his back to John as his body sways slightly in accord with the music.

“Not yet.”

John desperately wants to reach out and simply touch him, hug him but despite coming down the man's throat a mere ten minutes ago, such a comforting gesture seems far too intimate right now.

“Don't be long.” John says quietly but he's sure he'll sleep alone tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for staying with me! Next update is due by the end of April. _These things take time, I know that I'm the most inept that ever stepped..._


	9. Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's POV of the events of the past few days...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again painstakingly beta'd by Lockedinjohnlock, who is now on tumblr. Hurray! Welcome to hell! Look her up at lockedinjohnlock-podfics.tumblr.com - there you'll find all her marvellous Sherlock podfics. Listen!

_I know I'm unlovable_  
_You don't have to tell me_  
_I don't have much in my life_  
_But take it, it's yours_  
**The Smiths**

In the 33 years of his life, Sherlock had been fed his fair share of malady. He'd encountered various rather unpleasant elements (vicious serial killers and ruthless East End bouncers among them); he'd broken into at least three high security buildings, had been at the mercy of members of Her Majesty's Revenue & Customs and officers of various divisions of the UK's police forces (only the intervention of his brother had saved him from coming into contact with the more refined machinery of the British judicial system); speaking of Mycroft, at one point Sherlock had committed a deed that could well be rated as high treason. He'd infiltrated the TTP to rescue Irene and, at a very low point, had even lived rough in South London for a few months. But never in his whole life had he been as terrified as when he'd entered John's room and asked to stay the night.

It had been a leap of faith, a plunge in the dark. To say Sherlock had been terrified would be the understatement of a lifetime. But - rather miraculously - everything had turned out fine, for John had somehow understood.

It had been exciting. Unpredictable. Thrilling. And strangely comforting.

But then John had left. For his bloody work. God, the man was such a loyal, faithful, responsible bore sometimes! Instead of exploring how far things might progress with them, John had decided he'd prefer to treat viral rhinopharyngitis and phlegmy respiratory tracts! Just as Sherlock, for the first time in a very long while, had considered letting someone near, his chosen object of desire had absconded.

How did this man prioritise?

Bereft of socially acceptable diversions, Sherlock had been sulky and itchy all Thursday. John had sent him a few texts, sure, but that had been no replacement for the actual presence of the actual man. Sherlock hadn't bothered to answer.

What should he have written back, anyway? Come home and… _what_?

Apply manual stimulation by mutually massaging our genitals? John might have liked that, going by what had happened yesterday. Or would that be too trite? Should Sherlock blandly offer full-on anal penetration? But that might be too much too soon. John had told Sherlock he’d never done anything like this with a man so far.

God, this was utterly confusing! Weren't there rules for such things? There existed so many obsolete social conventions, there must be a correct procedure to follow if you were about to seduce your flatmate.

But was he really prepared to go through with this? So far, they had barely even consciously touched one another. Did John want to? Maybe he was offended by Sherlock's undeniable maleness? And would Sherlock be able to… cope with John’s attentions?

John might want to kiss him. Most certainly. People did. Sentiment.

Sherlock had shuddered at the thought. Just imagining John pushing his tongue into his mouth had made his skin prickle all over. Doing things like this with someone he'd have to face over the breakfast table every day felt unsettling in the extreme. Too much intimacy. No way to hide.

Sherlock's thoughts had spiralled quickly into dangerous territory. With too much time on his hands, he had a tendency to develop hazardous predilections (Molly Hooper and quite a few corpses at St. Bart's morgue bearing witness to his whims).

But he couldn't help it. Sherlock had returned again and again to the images of John retained upon his sensory cortex, his limbic system supplying him with graphic memories of their encounter while his pituitary gland had polluted his body with random doses of oxytocin. It had been rather appalling.

For example, Sherlock had caught himself standing in their kitchen, mug in hand, frozen half way between worktop and mouth, remembering the sounds John had made when pushing two fingers shallowly up his own rectum. Sherlock had imagined pushing his tongue up there, too, and his face had burned with shame as he'd felt his penis fill and stiffen. This was dirty, filthy and John would probably laugh or gasp in shock, repelled equally by Sherlock's ludicrous desires and his ineptness at executing them.

Sherlock had inhaled deeply, willing his erection away. His fingers had stayed tightly wrapped around the delicate china – anchoring him to the mundane necessities of life, his knuckles turning white - until the mug had shattered. Luckily, there had been only minor cuts to his fingers and Sherlock had quickly gathered up the shards and thrown them in the bin before he could come up with possibilities for putting them to a-bit-not-good use.

Shortly afterwards, however, he'd found himself sitting on the couch, staring into nothing, while visualising John with his heels tucked up against his backside, flushed chest heaving, legs spread wide, cock twitching, semen pulsing over his fingers.

Sherlock had wanted to taste John, his salty sweat, his milky ejaculate, had longed to lick his skin clean, sucking come from his testicles and fingers. John would have writhed and panted, perhaps even moaned Sherlock's name.... 

Sherlock had leaned back against the cushions, his chest rising and falling rapidly. What was the matter with him? Why couldn't he contain himself, his delirious mind and treacherous body? If just sharing a bed and watching John masturbate had already gained such momentum, what would happen if they engaged in proper intercourse? Sherlock’s inner turmoil between the need to stay in control and the desire to surrender was almost driving him round the bend. Quite reluctantly, he had to admit to himself that he’d been ready to beg ... but for what exactly? More?... Or less? The thought of offering himself up was as intoxicating as it was petrifying.

Finally taking a shower, Sherlock - embarrassed and ashamed – had allowed his hand to wander south. He had imagined stepping into the shower while John was having a wash. Sherlock had thrown his head back, raising his face up towards the spray, closing his eyes as his left hand had roamed his chest, hesitantly playing with one peaked nipple before caressing the defined muscles of his abdomen. All the while, Sherlock had badly wanted this to be John's hand, touching him.

Sherlock had screwed his eyes tightly shut as his hand pushed even lower. His knees had nearly buckled as he'd started to stroke himself, hard and fast. The lathering foam had made everything deliciously slick and Sherlock got embarrassingly close rather quickly. It had felt like drowning. He had to brace himself with one arm against the bathroom wall, envisaging looking down on John, whose pupils would be blown wide, lips slightly parted, rivulets of water running over his face, dripping from his lips, down his chin and neck...

Sherlock had thrusts into his fist, his hips bucking once, twice, before shooting his come all over the tiles, sobbing into the crook of his arm.

Afterwards, instead of relieved and elevated, Sherlock had felt jaded and weary. He'd tried to cheer himself up by extracting samples from the cuttings of the human lung still kept in the fridge, to establish Aspergillosis infestation but the sight of a scalpel in his hand had made him uneasy.

Suddenly, he had experienced the urgent need to flee the dingy flat, thereby escaping his feeble attempts at recreation, getting away from the smell of John and the remnants of their life together. He'd stormed off, leaving the detritus of his experiment littering the kitchen table.

At first, he’d wandered around blindly but in the end had found himself unconsciously following the Grand Union Canal tow path westwards. Reaching Wormwood Scrubs, he'd crossed the vast yet deserted open space, coming to stand in front of the iconic entrance of HM prison. He'd put a few men behind these bars himself but the idea had offered him neither consolation nor satisfaction. He had returned to Baker Street. The flat was still cold and empty, thus reflecting his state of mind adequately.

When John hadn't come home in the evening, Sherlock feared the worst. After two hours of restless pacing, his patience had been wearing thin. His phone had stayed ominously silent. By about ten o’clock, he’d been sure he'd finally scared John off. John had eventually decided that engaging in homosexual activities wasn't his cup of tea at all. Or, more precisely, engaging in homosexual activities with Sherlock had disappointed John so severely that he had gone for the safe option and chatted up one of his colleagues, perhaps even revived his liaison with Sarah.

The variables had been numerous and difficult to calculate, and Sherlock had worked himself up into quite a state while trying.

For John would have been right, wouldn't he, bearing in mind what Sherlock held in store for him? If Sherlock could be persuaded to engage in hands-on sexual exercises at all, he was but damaged, tainted. If John had known... there were a bunch of occurrences in Sherlock's past very likely to repel even someone as persistently permissive as John H. Watson. Or, worse, someone like John would feel obliged to be considerate, to treat carefully and act appreciatively. Sherlock instinctively recoiled.

This had all been a huge mistake. How could he ever have allowed himself to indulge in such a trivial if nonetheless dangerously addictive pastime as amorous encounters? He was skating on very thin ice here. He had nothing to offer that could possibly attract John. Instead, he'd probably already ruined their friendship beyond repair. How could John look him in the eye and call him his friend after what had happened between them?

Upon contemplating his total failure at being a worthy companion, someone John would call a pal or mate, the voices in his head had seen their chance and stirred again, whispering malevolent words of sombre intent. And weren’t they always right? He was weak and worthless and not entitled to that tiny flicker of complacence he'd nurtured over the past few days. How could he even have dared to endeavour? It was futile. 

Sherlock had craved some sort of sensory input to quieten the noise – just a little distraction, to give him some rest. At least three different scalpels were still lying on the kitchen table. He had got to his feet and walked over there, picked up a Number 11 blade and watched the light play on the slim silver knife. Elegant. Beautiful. If he pressed it against his skin, it would smoothly cut. He'd barely have to apply pressure. Sherlock had imagined a few swift strokes at tender flesh. But in the end he abstained; he’d been aware that the relief would be short-lived while the repugnance – enhanced by John's pity and disgust when he found out – would prevail, calling for ever more escalating measures the next time.

So eventually, Sherlock had abandoned his sinister thoughts and resigned himself instead, towards a less obvious method of release. True, John had thrown away his equipment but an addict was nothing if not inventive. Sherlock knew that the doctor kept some sterile syringes in the first aid kit in the bathroom. But when he'd envisaged John finding out about it, he'd hesitated. Twice a week spoke of dependency. John would be concerned – and angry. He was a doctor, after all. Substance abuse was nothing he'd tolerate on a regular basis.

In the end, Sherlock had taken tinfoil and a glass combustion tube from his chemistry tools and had smoked just enough heroin to calm down. Feeling somewhat sedated afterwards, he'd then gone up to John's room and crawled beneath the tatty sheets that smelled of cheap shampoo, wool, antiseptic and Earl Grey. This maudlin act might have been an exclamation of utmost pathetic misery, but Sherlock was past caring and just wanted a few hours’ rest.

When he found John sleeping next to him in the early hours, his heart skipped a beat. Perhaps his observations had been incorrect? Based on insufficient data or inaccurate initial conditions?  
John had his arm wrapped around Sherlock's waist but he didn't feel trapped or pestered, just quite content. That was why the disappointment hit him all the more severely when John left again. He was fobbed off with a rather short note, asking him to come to Angelo's.

In the evening.

More than twelve hours to kill!

He sent John a pointed text, openly conveying his annoyance before rolling over with a sulky huff, pulling up the sheets around him, watching the grey London light slowly fill the small room.  


The day dragged on and on, tedious and dull. Nothing captivated Sherlock long enough to let him relax, forget, bury himself in something worth his attention. Around mid-morning, his jealous inquisitiveness got the better of him and he fished John's clothes from last night out of the hamper, sniffing them (stale beer, neutral soap, alcohol hand rub, DKNY for women, JOHN), prying for some clues for infidelity. Infidelity?! That would imply being in a committed relationship. Nevertheless, he was glad when he discovered no tell-tale lipstick stains or residue of vaginal mucus.

God, how low had he gone?

To avert another crisis, he used the last of his stash, again just smoking it (the high wasn't that satisfying but it served its purpose while leaving no visible traces) and dozed all afternoon on his bed, his open dressing gown pooling around him in cool waves of soft silk. Every time an image of John popped into his head, however, he pinched the inside of his naked thigh – hard - until he winced and tears welled up in his eyes. But contusions were much easier to explain than lacerations.

He tolerated the anguish, even welcomed it. Sensation play: he’d toyed around with it in the past. It had been rewarding, at least on some occasions. Sherlock knew that pain helped him to focus, heightened his perception. He was quite aware that he needed a certain level of physical stimulus to let go.

Would John like to hurt him? Would he like to make Sherlock bleed? Would he like to wrap his fingers around Sherlock's throat and squeeze until all Sherlock was able to hear was his own blood gushing in his ears while black dots danced before his eyes?

Sherlock would most certainly let him. He was nothing if not curious and open to experimentation, at least within an accurately defined setting.

He'd be a good boy.

_'Oh, you will be such a good boy.'_

Bile rose rather unexpectedly in his throat; Sherlock was glad he made it to the loo in time.

Afterwards, he briskly showered – vigorously avoiding succumbing to yesterday’s indulgence - then got dressed meticulously in a tight purple shirt and slim black suit he knew John rather fancied before walking the short distance over to Angelo's.

John had the nerve to let him wait! Due to the heroin, Sherlock wasn't exceptionally hungry. On the contrary, the intense smells of roasted garlic, grilled fish and Mediterranean herbs nearly turned his empty stomach, still burning from his earlier retching. All the people around made him uneasy; he felt watched and confined. Paranoia could be a side-effect of freebasing but Sherlock had never suffered it to this extent before.

And all the while, John simply ate his food and drank his wine and sat there until Sherlock was internally screaming. What a waste of time! This was so pedestrian, so utterly mundane! He'd prefer sticking matches under his fingernails to this dull, trivial, superfluous meet-up. John could have eaten back at Baker Street as well. What was the point in dragging him here? Was it a test? Could John not bear being alone with him anymore? Was there a hidden message in this dating business Sherlock wasn't getting?

Behave! He chastised himself. Breathe. Calm down. Think! But it was nearly impossible, for his head pounded, his stomach hurt and his shoulders felt tense. Transport. It's just transport, he reminded himself but his failing body made it hard to block out all the impressions that bombarded his senses. The shrill voices of the adipose women on the next table, discussing their menopause, the grinding of cutlery on china, the grinding of coffee beans in the gleaming Italian espresso maker, chairs scraping over the wooden floor, rustling clothes, clinking glasses, whispers, murmurs; in short, the unnerving white noise of everyday life. He wanted everybody to shut up, to stop moving, speaking, laughing - just for a few moments. He wanted peace of mind. He wanted to storm back home and lock himself in his quiet room.

He tried the best he could to answer John's questions but wasn't in the mood for conversation. They had barely seen each other over the past 48 hours. Sherlock had longed for John, had even missed him but now had no idea what was expected of him. It was beyond comprehension why John would want to sit around, eat and make small talk. Sherlock was aware of his increasingly snappy reactions and cutting remarks but he couldn't help it. He was simply sick to death. He'd suppressed so much over the past few days that his defences that kept his mercurial temper in check were now crumbling.

He barely registered John paying the bill. He insisted; god, he was so hopelessly middle class. Sherlock blinked rapidly, then shrugged on his coat, acting on autopilot. They walked home in silence, for which Sherlock was grateful. Even John seemed subdued by now. It must have been a tough day.

Back at the flat, Sherlock thought hard about what to do to get back into John's favour. John didn't like him sulky. Or exhausted. Or irritable. But Sherlock's distant demeanour couldn't be undone by simply offering some kind of excuse; his behaviour called for penance. And, once again, it was his own fault, really. Why couldn't he just comply?

As he heard the shower running, he suddenly knew how to proceed. He had done this before. He was good at it. It had never failed to impress.

It wasn't as tiring as anticipated, despite being prolonged by John's unnecessary gentleness. At first, John reacted much as Sherlock had predicted. But as Sherlock offered John to use him as he pleased something barely perceptible shifted. When John looked at him during his service there was a frailty in his gaze that almost scared Sherlock. John on the brink of orgasm was far more open, fragile and vulnerable than Sherlock had dared to anticipate.

Was that what trust looked like? Longing? Adoration?

For a short moment Sherlock's fears were quieted; he pondered that John might be willing and able to see him for all that he truly was: and that it would be acceptable.

The kissing afterwards was disconcerting but unavoidable.

But in spite of being rather spectacularly fellated (modesty really wasn't one of Sherlock's predominant features), John seemed suddenly, somehow, bothered. Edgy. Uneasy. He wanted to talk about it.

Why?

Anyway, as John got what he'd been after, he didn't need Sherlock in his bed tonight, which was all the better, for Sherlock didn't feel able to deal with any more intimacy.

He played Mendelssohn until he was sure that John had fallen asleep, then made a phone call.

\---------

Nobody is aware of him slipping out of the flat in the dead of night (not even his brother who controls all of London's CCTV). Blandford Street is only a few minutes’ walk away, south of Marylebone Road. _'Purl'_ offers discreet alcoves and Sherlock heads for one of them. As money is no problem these days, the transaction is swift and businesslike. No favours are called in; no demands have to be met. Sherlock knows what he wants and his purveyor has it on offer. The exchange takes barely a minute. Sherlock is back home just a quarter of an hour after leaving. He feels sordid anyway.

He stores his fresh supplies in his usual hiding place, then showers. He allows himself five minutes in John's bedroom, looking down at the solid frame of the sleeping man – the sight still novel and therefore a bit daunting - before retreating to the living room and sitting in his chair in the dark. He's waiting for the sun to slowly rise over London, that great cesspool, the belly of the beast, the place he hates but can't live without, longing to feel the quiver of its beating heart.

He has to be better. He has to try harder. John wants him to be amazing, extraordinary, marvellous; and he will be. He will excel.

Luckily, next day brings a rather intriguing case, providing an opportunity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update due in May 2016. Please be patient!


	10. Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes a case that might end up a bit close to home - but at least it's a welcome distraction, resolving some of the tension that has been building up in 221b over the past few days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again painstakingly beta'd by the wonderful **lockedinjohnlock** , who - despite having loads on her plate herself - kindly went through the trouble to take a look at my story.  
> All remaining mistakes are mine, and mine alone.

_Yesterday I got so scared_   
_I shivered like a child_   
_Yesterday away from you_   
_It froze me deep inside_   
**The Cure - In Between Days -**

****

As John comes downstairs on Saturday morning, Sherlock is already on his laptop, skimming his inbox. He's still dressed in his clothes from last night, so John knows he hasn't slept at all. John wonders if he should remark on that, if they should discuss what happened, now that some time has passed. But as Sherlock seems rather captivated, John decides to make tea and wait patiently until Sherlock will be in the mood to make him privy to his thoughts. In the meantime, he sits in his chair, sips tea and browses through the paper. Perhaps it's a bit cowardly but he didn't even have a proper breakfast yet. There's only so much a British male can take.   
   
“You have heard of Neil Gibson?” Sherlock asks out of the blue.   
   
“You mean the American internet mogul?”   
   
There's a short silence as Sherlock turns towards John, frowning. “Honestly, John, do you even know what a _mogul_ is?”   
   
“That's what the tabloids call him. There's actually a piece about him somewhere in here.”   
   
“What does it say?” Sherlock sounds eager, his curiosity suddenly piqued.   
   
“I've no idea. It wasn't even in the economic section. Something about his marriage... I skipped it. I'm not particularly interested in other people's dirty linen being washed in public... Oi, Sherlock, I was reading that!”   
   
“No, you just told me you weren't.” Sherlock had stalked over and unceremoniously taken the sheets from John's hands. Now he's furiously leafing through the broadsheet, crumpling the pages, carelessly tossing aside the whole sports section, the TV schedule and the feuilleton. “Now, where is it? Where _IS IT_!? Really, John, in our profession, you should pay way more attention to gossip and slander.”   
   
“My profession is medicine. Scandal and chinwag don't apply.” John retorts flippantly, folding his arms over his chest in gloomy defiance.   
   
Sherlock disapprovingly shakes his head but gives no other outward sign that John's comment has registered. Finally, he makes a victorious little noise, not unlike a wolf whistle. His eyes dart quickly back and forth as he soaks up all the information that the paper has to offer. “Interesting... just as I thought... oh! _OH_!”   
   
“What is it?” John sighs. The past few months have made him quite aware of the frailty of the resident genius and his persistent need for an audience.   
   
“It's about the husband. He was found murdered on a bridge at Hampstead Heath. Shot in the head. The PA has been arrested... a young man called... Sean Dunbar. Oh, these are deep waters, John!” Sherlock mumbles as he carelessly drops the paper to the floor and returns to his laptop on the desk.   
   
“Wait, husband? So Neil Gibson is dead?” John sits up, confused.   
   
“What? No, of course not. Don't you ever listen? I said, the husband was shot...” Sherlock answers distractedly before trailing off altogether; he has already lost both energy and interest to explain things further. Instead he's typing something, then hits enter and leans back in his chair, looking rather pleased with himself.   
   
“Sorry, Sherlock, I don't get it. Who's dead? What happened?” John enquires, conceding defeat.   
   
Sherlock steeples his long, elegant fingers in front of his mouth and closes his eyes. His face reflects the immense endurance he has to muster in a world of goldfish. “John, you might be aware that, at least in the 21st century, some legal contracts can be entered by members of the same sex.” Sherlock opens his eyes and turns to face John, arching an eyebrow sardonically.   
   
John finally catches on. “Oh, you mean... so he was... is... Neil Gibson is... gay?”   
   
“Dear god, that took you a while!” Sherlock exclaims. “I hadn't put you down for a homophobic old crock.”   
   
John huffs in annoyance. “And I hadn't thought you a champion for equal marriage. Isn't any form of matrimony a long dead relic to you, dull, mundane and hypocritical?”   
   
Sherlock is on the brink of answering but is literally saved by the bell. “Ah, that must be our new client!” With that, he jumps up, straightens his jacket and perches languidly on the edge of the desk.   
   
A moment later, there's a firm knock on the door before an impressively handsome man enters, his tall, gaunt figure brimming with a suggestion of hunger and rapacity. His face is hard-set, remorseless, with a strong chin and sharp but cold grey eyes. After eyeing the two men in turn, taking in the dingy untidiness of 221b with a stern gaze, he walks over and lowers himself rather unceremoniously onto Sherlock's chair. Sherlock is forced to turn around, looking down at the new arrival. Their guest isn't the least intimidated.  John had got up as the man had entered and now instinctively moves to Sherlock's side, standing a little more upright, every inch Captain John H. Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.   
   
“Mr Gibson, I presume.” Sherlock states by way of an introduction. “You are on schedule.” It sounds very much like a compliment to John's ears.   
   
“Let me say right here, Mr. Holmes,” their client begins in a rather subtle but still recognisable accent, “that money is nothing to me in this case. You can burn it if it’s any use in getting you to the truth. Sean Dunbar is innocent and has to be cleared, and it’s up to you to do it. Name your figure!”   
   
John takes an instant dislike to the man.   
   
“My professional charges are upon a fixed scale,” Sherlock retorts coldly. “I do not vary them, save when I remit them altogether.” As much as John is normally concerned with their financial matters (and Sherlock's total lack of interest in them), at this moment he is rather proud of the consulting detective's disregard for monetary gain.   
   
Gibson just looks mildly amused. “Well, so money makes no difference to you?” His eyes roam Sherlock's body, clad in a bespoke suit and a shirt surely the other side of 200 quid.   
Sherlock seems slightly annoyed by the unwanted attention towards his attire. “You are wasting time. Let us get down to the facts.”   
   
“I think you'll find everything in the press reports.” Gibson peers over at the pages strewn all over the carpet. “But if there's anything you want me to clarify - well, here I am. Fire away.”   
   
“There is just one point.”   
   
“What is it?”   
   
“What were the exact relations between you and Mr Dunbar?” Sherlock asks, matter-of-factly.   
   
Gibson stares back at him and for a brief moment, dark contempt shows on his carefully composed face. But after a second, his calm is restored. “I can assure you that our relations were entirely and always those of an employer towards a trusted young employee,” Gibson answers icily.   
   
Sherlock pushes away from the desk and sits back down in his desk chair, turning his back demonstratively to Gibson while powering up his laptop. “I'm a rather busy man, Mr. Gibson, and I have no time or taste for aimless conversations. Good-morning.” With that, the detective gestures towards their door, his elegantly long fingers waving in the air.   
   
Gibson, instead of getting up, only leans sideways in Sherlock's chair, an angry gleam in his grey eyes and a tinge of colour creeping up his collar. John instinctively takes a step forward to position himself between their bristling client and the world's rudest consulting detective. “What exactly do you mean by this, Mr. Holmes? Do you dismiss my case?” Gibson asks dangerously low. He reaches out and grabs Sherlock's shoulder, forcing him to turn around.   
   
Sherlock doesn't flinch but looks Gibson straight in the eye. “Well, Mr. Gibson, at least I dismiss you. I should have thought my words were plain. And now, I would be most grateful if you could remove your hand.”   
   
Gibson does as he's told but brushes his hand all the way down Sherlock's right arm, even over the back of Sherlock's hand.  It tightens reflexively around the armrest; Gibson notices and lets his fingers linger a moment longer. “What are you playing at, Mr Holmes? Raising the price on me? Or are you just afraid to tackle the case?” the millionaire mumbles, more wondering than accusatory.   
   
“This case is quite sufficiently complicated without the further difficulty of false information.” Sherlock snaps.   
   
“Meaning that I lie.” Gibson growls, looking up again, fixing Sherlock with his hard gaze.   
   
“I was trying to express it as delicately as I could, but if you insist upon the word I will not contradict you.” Sherlock doesn't flinch under the stare.   
   
The expression on Gibson's face suddenly becomes one of fiendish spite. He slowly raises himself to his full height, clenching his fists. He's almost towering over Sherlock, who just smiles one of his false smooth smiles.     
   
“Don’t get vocal, Mr. Gibson. I find that, before breakfast, even the smallest argument is quite unsettling. I suggest you think it over and return when you made up your mind.”   
   
With a visible effort Gibson swallows his anger, only displaying frigid and contemptuous indifference. “It’s your choice, Mr Holmes. I guess you know how to run your own business. I can’t make you take the case against your will. But you’ve done yourself no good this morning. I have broken stronger men than you. No man who ever crossed me was the better for it.”   
   
“Many have said so, and yet here I am,” Sherlock is still smiling, his voice full of contempt. “Good-morning, Mr. Gibson.”   
   
The millionaire gives Sherlock and John one last look of disgruntled recalcitrance, then leaves, banging the door forcefully shut behind himself.   
   
John releases a breath he hadn't been aware of holding. “Jesus Sherlock, couldn't you … I don't know … tread a little bit more carefully? This is a man who doesn't seem used to being turned down. He doesn't take no for an answer.”   
   
“Exactly. That's quite telling, isn't it?”   
   
“Why occupy yourself with it? I thought you just dismissed him and his case.”   
   
“Oh no, John. He's desperate. He'll be back shortly. And perhaps then he'll be prepared to tell me the truth.”   
   
“About his relations with the PA?”   
   
“Yes, among other things.” Sherlock grins wickedly. “In the meantime, I could do with some coffee,” he states graciously.   
   
“Yeah, cheers, me too.” John settles back in his chair after gathering up the pages of the paper. Sherlock remains sitting at the desk for a whole minute, glaring at John, who grins behind the sheets until the detective finally gets up and strides past him with a huff of annoyance. John can almost hear him complain: 'Brain the size of a planet, and here am I, reduced to a tea lady!'   
   
“Calm down, princess, you don't have a case on right now.” John shouts over his shoulder, trying to appease his flatmate but judging by the banging and cursing coming from their kitchen, it is to no avail.   
   
\----------   
   
Of course, Sherlock is proven right. Two hours later, a much calmer Neil Gibson sits again in their living room – this time properly in the client's chair – and tells his story:   
“It's rather painful and humiliating, speaking of the whole sad business. I met Mario about ten years ago when I was investing in a start-up in Brazil. Mario Pinto was the son of a government official in Manaos. He was exotic, beautiful, a bit dangerous and a little unbalanced.” The millionaire gives Sherlock a pointed look but continues as there is no reaction forthcoming from the detective. “I fell head over heels for him. To cut a long story short, I was besotted with him and I married him. We entered into a civil union in 2004. But soon afterwards, as the first passion had died down, I realized that we had nothing, absolutely nothing in common. My love faded. If his had faded too it might have been easier. But whatever I did, nothing could turn Mario from me. He adored me; he insisted on coming to England with me. Well, he knew quite a bit about my dealings with the Brazilians, which hadn't always been entirely above board, as these things seldom are.” Gibson pauses to look at Sherlock again, who doesn't show any sign of disapproval. Instead, his pale eyes stare into nothing as he listens in utmost concentration. Gibson swallows, then continues. “Over here I met Sean Dunbar. He became my PA. Now, I make no pretence to be more moral than my neighbours; I had to have him. I told him so, making him a very generous offer. Do you blame me, Mr. Holmes?”   
   
John gazes down at his feet. He feels uneasy, as if he'd just glimpsed something unsavoury on his plate but doesn't want to upset the cook by complaining.   
   
But Sherlock seems unfazed. “I don't make it a habit of mine to judge my clients’ conduct in this specific area,” he states coolly. “But I must point out to you that there are certain laws regarding sexual harassment in this country, as there certainly are in yours.”   
   
Gibson smiles a thin predatory smile. “Oh, believe me, Mr Holmes, I'm quite familiar with those laws.” There is a short silence before Gibson continues, “Sean... turned me down, actually. Said it would be inappropriate, because I was his boss and I was married.” Gibson sighs at the memory and shakes his head in frustration.   
   
John can't help it, the man makes him sick. “Well, why did Dunbar stay with you after that?” He enquires and some of his disdain must be audible in his voice.   
   
Gibson looks up at John, his grey eyes piercing. “Do you condemn me, Doctor Watson?” John has the distinct feeling that Gibson peers right into his soul. “Who knows why people do the things they do? Perhaps he needed the money? Perhaps he thought I could help him along with his career? Anyway, I promised restraint and Sean stayed.”   
   
“Did Mario know about your... devotion... towards Mr Dunbar?” Sherlock's voice drips with unusually blatant contempt.   
   
Gibson seems oblivious to it. “I honestly don't know. We were not on speaking terms anymore. He lived in my house but I ignored him as best as I could. I'd offered him a separation, granting him lavish alimony, but he wouldn't accept it.”   
   
“There was a WhatsApp message on Mario's phone, confirming a meeting with Mr Dunbar for the night he died?”    
   
“That's right, Mr Holmes. Mario was even clutching the cell phone in his hand when he was found on that bridge.”   
   
“Where were you the night Mario died?” Sherlock doesn't bother to hide his suspicion.   
   
Gibson simply leans back and opens his arms in a gesture of reassuring frankness. “I returned home from the city at about five, showered, changed, had dinner – alone – then worked until the police came by to tell me they'd found Mario. That must have been around eleven.” He sounds totally unmoved.   
   
“Why was your PA arrested?” John wonders.   
   
“Despite the message confirming to meet Mario on that bridge? A revolver was found in his wardrobe when the police searched the house. The fuzz believe it to be the murder weapon.” Talking about his dead husband had left Gibson unaffected but now his voice is strained with desperation.   
   
John arches his eyebrows and purses his lips. “And yet you are sure that he couldn't have done it?”   
   
“Quite sure, Doctor Watson.” Gibson states in a way that bears no argument.   
   
“Looks pretty grim to me...” John comments but Sherlock silences him with a wave of his hand.   
   
“I have to see the official reports – ballistics, toxicology, forensics, pictures from the crime scene. Can you get me those?”   
   
“Files and photos? Is that all? Don't you want to visit the crime scene or talk to Sean... Mr Dunbar?”   
   
“What for?” Sherlock asks, genuinely bewildered.   
   
“To see it for yourself? To get a feeling for the people involved? I'm sure if you were to talk to Sean, you would...”   
   
But Sherlock interrupts the millionaire with an annoyed sigh. “I assure you that is entirely unnecessary. People lie, facts don't. Good day Mr Gibson, I'll contact you as soon as I have some news.”   
   
\-----------

In the time leading up to the files arrive in the afternoon, Sherlock had been searching the internet, gathering all available information regarding the victim, the suspect, Gibson's enterprises and the man himself. John had made tea and run errands.   
   
“Phone Lestrade.”   
   
“Sherlock, that investigation is not even Greg's division.”   
   
“Then phone Mycroft to make sure it is.”   
   
“Call him yourself, you pompous prick. Why is it always me who has to deal with your bloody brother? Ok, calm down, I'll phone him.”   
   
\---   
   
“Get hold of the Brazilian ambassador.”   
   
“Sorry, I don't happen to have the phone numbers of random foreign dignitaries.”   
   
“Remind me, what exactly is the purpose of your residency here?”   
   
\---   
   
“Summarize these regulations concerning civil unions in Brazil! I don't have time for this right now but it might be important.”   
   
“I don't even speak Spanish, Sherlock.”   
   
“Never mind, they are in Portuguese.”   
   
“Oh, well, then... no problem.”   
   
“Honestly, John, why were you making such a fuss in the first place?”   
   
“Because I don't speak fucking Portuguese either!”   
   
“Your education has been clearly lacking important subjects. You did go to a school, didn't you?”   
   
“Of course I did. But it was a comprehensive in the eighties. Remember what the grocer's daughter did to their funding?”   
   
“John, you are making no sense whatsoever. What has a grocer's daughter to do with your language skills?”   
   
“Never mind, Sherlock.”   
   
As it turns out, the translation of Brazilian laws regarding same sex marriage is not needed in the end. Sherlock, after a thorough examination of all the photographs taken by the police, spies a chip in the stone parapet of the bridge on which Mario was shot. This discovery is met with a prolonged period of silence, followed by rapid deductions that John's not entirely sure he can make sense of. It boils down to: “Take your gun, phone Lestrade, phone Gibson. We'll meet them on this bridge in half an hour.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gentle reader might have spotted my attempt at updating "The Problem of Thor Bridge" here...  
> Next chapter is due in June 2016. We are already working on it.  
> As it turns out, this story might have 14 to 15 chapters, so we are more than halfway through the mess by now.


	11. Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After solving the case of the millionaire's dead husband Sherlock and John finally start talking to sort out their muddled feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to my patient beta **Lockedinjohnlock**. You can find her amazing podfics here: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/works.  
>  All remaining mistakes are mine.

_Someday you'll see I've been true_  
 _I'll stay that way until_  
Sugar - If I can't change your mind

Sherlock is silent on the cab ride, impatiently drumming his fingers against his knees. John makes an attempt to ease the tension by asking: “Would you care to elaborate?” He knows it's very hard for Sherlock to resist the temptation to brag.   
   
“Think, John! This murder had struck me as rather stupid even at my first perfunctory reading of the news. We must look for consistency. Where there is a want of it, one must suspect deception.”   
   
“I don’t follow.”   
   
“Well, nothing new there.” Sherlock states absent-mindedly, turning towards John, who, from long term exposure to Sherlock's reasoning, is past indignation. “Suppose for a moment you are plotting, in a cold, premeditated fashion, to get rid of a rival.” John keeps his face carefully blank. “You have planned it. A text message has been written. The victim has come. You have your weapon. The crime is committed. You escape from the scene. Do you tell me that after carrying out such a cunning crime you would now ruin your reputation as a criminal by forgetting to fling your revolver into those adjacent reed-beds which would forever cover it? That instead, you would carry it home and put it in your own wardrobe, the very first place that would be searched? You can hardly be called a schemer, John, but even you wouldn't do anything as stupid as that.”   
   
“Well, perhaps Dunbar was jittery? He's not a professional hitman after all.”   
   
“No, no, John, that doesn't fit. Where a crime is coolly premeditated, the means of covering it are coolly premeditated too. I think, therefore, that we are in the presence of a serious misconception.”   
   
Sherlock gazes out of the window again and stays silent for the rest of the drive.   
   
They meet Gibson and Lestrade on the bridge on Hampstead Heath. Greg is accompanied by a rather sullen looking police officer by name of DC Coventry, who has been in charge of the investigation until it had recently been mysteriously taken from him and had been transferred over to NSY.   
   
It's a fine, if windy, autumn day; Gibson is sporting expensive dark pilot shades and a fur-lined leather jacket, his blond hair tousled by the breeze. He's all elegant casualness, while Lestrade has his hands stuffed into the pockets of his worn coat, squinting his eyes against the bright sunshine. The equally shabbily dressed DC Coventry watches Sherlock and John with open doubt.   
   
“Sherlock, if you have dragged us out here to just show off, I promise you...” Lestrade starts but is interrupted by Sherlock, who is suddenly beaming with delight and satisfaction. Their surroundings make John think that Sherlock takes to this part of a case like a duck to water.   
   
“Air. Sun. Shouldn't you be delighted, Graham, to escape your stuffy office for an hour?”   
   
“It's Greg.”   
   
“Sorry? Whatever. I'm about to hand you the conclusion to a rather intriguing case, a very subtle and outright sly affair.”   
   
“Since when is this even my case?” Lestrade whines and DC Coventry scuffs his shoes on the dark asphalt of the bridge, purposely averting his eyes from all concerned parties.   
   
“So you've solved it?” Gibson asks and there is a tone of quizzical admiration in his voice that makes Sherlock puff up even more.   
   
“Sherlock, get on with it.” John sighs, trying to ground the madman before he starts to stride about like a rutting peacock. Besides, flattering Sherlock is his job and his alone!   
   
Sherlock just rolls his eyes.   
   
“All right. John. Your revolver, please.” Sherlock holds out his hand expectantly.   
   
John produces the gun from the small of his back, a short, handy, but very serviceable weapon (not unlike his owner). Sherlock undoes the catch, shakes out the cartridges and examines it with care.   
   
“It’s heavy—remarkably heavy,” he says. “Do you know, John, I believe your revolver is going to have a very intimate connection with the mystery which we are investigating.”   
   
John looks dubious.   
   
“No, John, I am very serious. I'll give you a little demonstration. It's a magic trick. If you know how it was done, it seems rather simple. So! Now, do you all see these ten yards of string?”   
   
Like some sort of fairground magician, Sherlock produces a cord from one of his unfathomably deep pockets.   
   
His audience, with critical and incredulous glances, watches as Sherlock firmly ties one end of the twine to the handle of the revolver. With great care he marks the exact spot where the body of Mario Gibson has been found. He then hunts among the heather and the ferns – all swirling coat and bobbing curls - while the two policemen glance at each other in disbelief and Gibson smiles rather appreciatively - until he finds a hefty stone. This, Sherlock secures to the other end of his line of string, which he then hangs over the parapet of the bridge so that it swings just above the water. Eventually, Sherlock takes his position on the fatal spot in the middle of the road, some distance from the edge of the bridge, with the revolver in his hand, the cord taut between the weapon and the heavy stone on the farther side.   
   
“Watch!” he stage-whispers.   
   
With these words he raises the pistol to his temple and then let go of his grip. In an instant the weapon is whisked away by the weight of the stone, striking, with a sharp crack against the balustrade before vanishing over the side into the water. Sherlock grins, looking triumphant and very pleased with himself.   
   
“Was there ever a more exact demonstration?” he asks, spinning around and bouncing over to the parapet where he points to a second chip of the exact size and shape as the first which has appeared under the edge of the stone balustrade.   
   
In the direction of Scotland Yard's finest, he continues: “You will, of course, get a grappling-hook to restore John's revolver. You will also find beside it the revolver, string and weight with which this vindictive creature Mario attempted to disguise his own suicide to pin a charge of murder upon an innocent victim he regarded as his rival. It will be proven that the weapon found in Mr. Dunbar's wardrobe is of the exact same calibre and brand, that even a shot had been fired with it, but that it is not the murder weapon. Now steps can be taken for Mr. Dunbar’s vindication.”   
   
Lestrade and Coventry look rather sheepish but nonetheless impressed. Gibson nods briskly at Sherlock, then steps towards him and pats his shoulder. His hands rest on Sherlock's lapels as both men lock eyes. Sherlock licks his lips, his pink tongue darting out briefly. Gibson nods again.   
   
“That was amazing. We should celebrate this, Mr. Holmes. May I invite you over to dinner, my place, eight o'clock tonight? I'm sure you want to retrieve your reward.” He sounds business-like but John senses an inappropriate chummy undertone he doesn't like at all.   
   
“As I said before, it's not about the money, Mr Gibson, it's about the challenge.” Sherlock's voice slightly wavers.   
   
Gibson strokes down Sherlock's coat front, slowly and deliberately. This man is definitely way too tactile for Johns liking.   
   
“Of course,” he answers in a low voice.   
   
John has to rigidly suppress the impulse to haul the millionaire over the parapet.   
   
Their client has the good sense to remove his hands from Sherlock's body just in time. He offers one, instead, for a shake, which lingers far too long, before bidding his farewell to the rest of the small crowd.   
   
As Gibson walks towards the park's exit, Lestrade complains. “Well, that invitation certainly did not include me.”   
   
“Nor me.” John adds.   
   
Sherlock is following Gibson's departure with narroed eyes. “Don't be disappointed. I'm sure it will be a rather dull affair.”   
   
But there is something in Sherlock's manner that raises John's suspicion. As Sherlock stares after the retreating figure John is overcome by a sense of unease he can't quite put his finger on but which makes him want to seize Sherlock in his arms and hug him tight.   
   
Instead, they tread towards the park's exit, side by side but worlds apart.   
   
\----------   
   
At half past seven the same evening, Sherlock emerges from his bedroom, dressed in a sharp black suit and tight white shirt.   
   
“So, you’re seriously going?” John asks, trying to hide his irritation behind a mask of indifference.   
   
“Well, it's you who always insists on me taking more care of all matters financial. Gibson wants to hand over his cheque. I'd thought you'd approve,” Sherlock states, but beneath his cocksure behaviour John can sense uncertainty.   
   
“He could have just sent it by post. Or, even better, paid the money directly into your account.”   
   
“I imagine he wants to add a more personal touch.”   
   
“I bet he does,” John grumbles, switching on the telly.   
   
“You don't like him.” Sherlock says, sounding somewhat stunned.   
   
“Very well spotted, genius. No, I don't like him.”   
   
“But why?” Sherlock tilts his head slightly to gaze inquisitively at his flatmate.   
   
“Because he thinks money is the answer to everything and that everybody can be bought.”   
   
“Well, everybody can be bought.”   
   
“You really don't get it, do you?” John looks up at Sherlock, frowning. As he is met with a somewhat aloof smirk, he redirects his attention to a pair of B-list celebrities trying to waltz around a flashy stage, fake smiles cemented on their heavily made-up faces, the woman wearing a flimsy piece of polyester fabric, barely covering her private parts. It's ridiculous and a little bit repelling. “As you don't seem to have any scruples, you might actually enjoy yourself.” John addresses the screen instead of Sherlock.   
   
“John Watson, are you jealous?” Sherlock asks incredulously, grinning mischievously.   
   
“Piss off, Sherlock.” John immerses himself into the show (where, by now, a snarky jury delivers their pre-scripted mean judgements, which sounds quite appealing to John in his present sour mood) and rigorously refuses to acknowledge Sherlock leaving. Only after the door has been shut carefully does he close his eyes – the on-screen contestants forgotten - and lean his head back while trying to keep his breathing even. Sometimes he feels seriously on the brink of throttling that impossible git.   
   
\----------   
   
Sherlock doesn't come home that night. It's not that John has waited for him but...   
   
_'God, John, stop it, who do you think you are kidding?'_  
   
Of course he had waited. He'd been lying in bed, tossing and turning, listening for the sound of the front door closing, steps on the stairs, something.   
   
But all is quiet.   
   
John makes tea at two o'clock in the morning, contemplating texting Sherlock. He sits on the sofa in the living room, head in hand and stares down at his phone sitting on the coffee table like it's a rather tempting but forbidden vice. He forgets to drink his tea and pours it down the drain an hour later, wondering where the time has gone.   
   
At four o'clock he nearly calls Mycroft.   
   
But he has no right to do so, hasn't he? They are not... whatever. Maybe not even friends anymore, with or without benefits?   
   
_'You are utterly screwed, John Watson.'_  
   
He still has no idea what Sherlock's stance is in this matter.   
   
Could he ask again?   
   
Should he ask again?   
   
Where the hell is the bloody toff, anyway?   
   
John simply forbids his brain to imagine anything happening between Sherlock and Gibson. He's... cold and arrogant and predatory and over-confident and ruthless, so what could Sherlock possibly see in him?   
   
_'God, John, just shut the fuck up. You’re only making things worse.'_  
   
He seriously should take his own advice. But he can't.   
   
Sherlock eventually returns shortly after eight. John is still perched on the sofa, not even trying to look occupied. He showered and dressed around an hour ago, hoping the hot water would ease the leaden weariness of his body and mind. In vain.   
   
John knows it the moment Sherlock walks into their sitting room. It's the swagger of debauched confidence mixed with lazy ease and suppressed pride. John feels sick to the bone.   
   
“Had fun?” John asks, his voice hoarse with fatigue and hurt.   
   
“Not particularly, no.” Sherlock hangs up his coat, then just stands there, not meeting John's eye.   
   
“Well, you stayed the night. Can't have been that bad, then.”   
   
“John...”   
   
“No, Sherlock, please, stop it. I have no right... you don't have to explain...” John hears his voice crack; he presses his palms fiercely against his eye sockets to not embarrass himself any further.   
   
“You said I should enjoy myself.” Sherlock sounds meek and rather lost.   
   
John looks up at him, baffled. “That, Sherlock, was a joke. Don't tell me you fucked that tosser because I told you to!”   
   
“I didn't.”   
   
“Now that's a relief...”   
   
“He fucked me.”   
   
John's mind goes completely blank. What the hell is one supposed to say to something like that? He can only stare at Sherlock, like he's never seen him before. Sherlock stares right back, unblinking.   
   
“You... care?” It's half statement half question.   
   
“Yes, Sherlock, I care,” John answers, too weary to disguise his feelings anymore.   
   
There's a short silence.   
   
“Why?”   
   
“You really don't know, do you?” John huffs. He thinks about resorting to some stilted phrasing to hide behind but discovers that he's too exhausted. They've danced around it long enough; the only good it did was to give Sherlock the impression that John just wants him as some kind of sexual sparring partner. He remembers Sherlock giving him a blow job as some form of apology mere 36 hours ago. And John had let him. God, what a mess he'd made!   
   
“Because I love you, you idiot.” It's so simple and yet so devastating.   
   
Sherlock makes a sound that might have been meant to resemble a laugh but comes out more like a choke. He crosses his arms over his chest and his voice is pure vitriol when he tells John in a mockingly cooing tone: “Oh, that's so sweet of you, John, I come home and tell you that I got shagged – wait, there's a figure of speech – yes, ‘three ways to Sunday’ and you confess your love to me. What am I supposed to make of this? Shall I sink at your feet and say I'm sorry, that it will never happen again, that from now on there will only be you and me until happily ever after?”   
   
“Don't!” John murmurs, cringing, turning away from Sherlock, who even has the nerve to bat his eyelashes at him in a scathing caricature of flirtation.   
   
“Oh, John, I feel redeemed by your affection. Everything will be sparkling rainbows and saccharine exuberance from now on.” Sherlock cajoles in a camp high-pitched voice and John loses control.   
   
He dives forward, grabbing Sherlock by the lapels of his jacket and shoves him violently against the bookshelf next to the window.   
   
“I said don't!” He growls as the air is knocked out of Sherlock, who is totally taken by surprise, staring wide-eyed at John who can barely keep his impulses in check. John stands so close he can smell the scent of another man on Sherlock – not only an unfamiliar aftershave but the unmistakable heady musk of sex - and he feels his stomach turn as suddenly it all gets frighteningly real. Images flood his brain, of strong, bold hands touching Sherlock's delicate skin, skimming his curving, sweat glistening spine as someone else's cock pushes into him, breaching him and he can almost hear Sherlock gasp in his deep velvety voice. John has to step back and press the back of his hand against his mouth to prevent himself from throwing up.   
   
Sherlock's face is ashen when he dares to ask in a low voice: “Do you mean something like this when you say you love me?”   
   
John is brought back to the present by this question. Somehow sobered, he's all at once almost terrified of what he might have done to Sherlock.   
   
“I'm sorry. I... you... god, I...” His vision starts to blur.   
   
“Breathe, John.” Sherlock is still standing with his back against the bookshelf but he seems to relax a fraction as John stumbles further back until he hits the desk with his backside. His head feels dizzy and he has to clutch at the desk so as not to keel over.   
   
Sherlock says something, but his voice seems to come from far away and then everything goes dark. The next thing John knows, he's crouching on the floor with Sherlock by his side, holding a plastic bag in his shaking hands. John takes it with equally unsure fingers, presses it to his mouth and starts breathing into it while Sherlock rubs soothing circles into his back. It takes a few minutes but then John's head clears; the buzzing in his ears ceases and his breathing evens.   
   
“Thank you. That was... much needed.” John croaks.   
   
“The bag or the punch?”   
   
“I didn't punch you.”   
   
“It was a close call.”   
   
“It always is, with you.” John smiles a small sad smile. Sherlock coughs, then draws a deep breath.   
   
“John, I'm not what you want. I'm really not.”   
   
“Can I decide that for myself? And it's too late, anyway.”   
   
“I just spent the night with someone else.”   
   
“So did I last week.”   
   
“Yes, but that was different. You did that as some kind of stand-in for me.”   
   
“Now you flatter yourself.”   
   
“What I mean, John, is that you'd rather have spent the night with me but as I seemed unapproachable at the time, you took the next best thing on offer. No, please, hear me out, this is important. I can endure intimacy with strangers; but I don't think I could ever have you taking me to bed. Do you understand what I'm saying?”   
   
“No-o,” John concedes, hesitantly drawing out the syllable.   
   
“Random people are not a threat. I don't know them. They don't know me. It's purely physical. I don't care for them. It might even be enjoyable, if I can let go. And if it's disappointing, I'll never have to see them again. But it's different with you.”   
   
“I should hope so.”   
   
“No, you really shouldn't.”   
   
“Sherlock, if you are trying to tell me that you have difficulties with opening up to other people, to trust them, to allow for closeness – do you really think that's news to me?”   
   
“I'm not sure you are aware of the implications.”   
   
“If, by implications, you mean that our relationship won't be graced by vigorous shagging on every available surface, then it might come as a surprise to you that I am totally prepared to give it a miss if it's not what you want.”   
   
Sherlock arches an eyebrow, looking doubtful.   
   
“In a few years, I'll be glad if I get it up once in a while.” John grins.   
   
“And until then?”   
   
“Until then, I can live with almost everything except sex offered out of some sense of obligation. Or remorse. Or pity. Or apology. There are so many lousy reasons to have sex. And only one proper one: if you want it. Really want it so badly you could gnaw your own testicles off.”   
   
Sherlock looks actually a bit horrified at that prospect. After a moment, he asks: “And if I don't?”   
   
“Then you don't.”   
   
Sherlock gazes at John rather sceptical. “You don't mean that.”   
   
“Yes, Sherlock, I do. Besides, I have two healthy hands and a vivid imagination. If it's ok with you... what we did the other morning, then I think I can cope.” John blushes right up to the tips of his ears.   
   
Sherlock nods briefly. “That might be acceptable... now and then.”   
   
John can't help but smile. “Fine. But as I said, I love you. I... want to protect you. I have the disquieting feeling that in your past you had some rather... bad experiences. I don't want to add to them. So, please, tell me if things get too much, or if you don't want to...”   
   
Sherlock swallows, nods. They are squatting on their living room floor at half past eight on a Sunday morning, tired, sore, broken – but somehow, it just feels right.   
   
“Would you like to know?” Sherlock asks suddenly, feeling brave and reckless because of the security John's undemanding proximity and the familiar surroundings offer. And if John honestly means what he's saying, then he deserves to know.   
   
“Only if you want to tell me.”   
   
“I think I might just as well. So you know what you’re getting yourself into.”   
   
John smirks. “That bad, is it?”   
   
“You have no idea.” Sherlock whispers, before pulling his knees up to his chest, resting his forehead upon them. Curled tight like this, he begins to tell John.   
   
   
   
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try to update again by the end of June.


	12. Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here comes Sherlock's backstory. As you might imagine, it's not fluff and roses. Please heed the tags! Despite all the grim stuff ahead I nevertheless tried to finish on a slightly uplifting note.  
> Again heaps of gratitude towards **Lockedinjohnlock** for betaing, even when suffering from flu! All remaining errors are mine.

Sherlock is curled into a tight ball, arms clasped around his lower legs, his forehead resting against his knee caps. “I was packed off to boarding school when I was thirteen,” he begins, sounding restrained and detached, as if he's talking about someone else. “It was quite a venerable institution. Mycroft had graduated there the year before.” Sherlock coughs. “During my first year, one of my classmates drowned in the school swimming pool.”

When Sherlock doesn’t continue John asks tentatively, “An accident?”

“No. It was… he killed himself.” Sherlock's voice is devoid of any emotion, monotonous, flat.

John senses he has to tread very carefully. “A friend of yours?” 

Sherlock hesitates. “We slept in the same dorm… The day before… he did it… we talked. I had been sent to fetch him because he was missing from class. I found him on his bed. He was… crying.”

Sherlock is struggling; John can tell from his hunched shoulders and the uncharacteristic stammering. He has to take a deep breath before he’s able to go on. “I asked him what the matter was. It was all a bit embarrassing, really. He didn’t answer. I enquired if he was in pain, if he needed the nurse. He just... it was… disturbing. I felt at a loss. I just wanted to leave and tell our teacher that I hadn’t found him but then he said something…”

Sherlock falls silent again and seems to gather strength. “He asked me if I could keep a secret. I said, yes, of course. Then he told me… he told me that our PE teacher used to keep him after class. That he… had to touch him. And was touched and… other things.”

John stays silent. There's nothing to say. He feels like vomiting over the carpet but that wouldn't help much, either. So he waits.

Sherlock's voice is steady and cold as he speaks again. “I was shocked. I didn’t believe him. I thought he was making it all up to get attention. I told him so. Then I left him. The next day he was found dead.”

John does not want to listen to this. But he has to. 

“It was written off as a tragic accident. A discreet inquiry was launched. But no one wanted to make a fuss – neither the school nor the parents. Feared the scandal. In the end, nothing came of it.” Sherlock almost spits the last words out, his tone dripping with cynical indifference. “But I knew... even if I had no proof. Therefore, I couldn't make any allegation or press for specific charges...”

John suddenly experiences an unsettling feeling of foreboding. His mouth is dry; his skin prickles. He fears he knows where this is heading and wants to run from the room and away from Sherlock’s low, mesmerising voice. But he won't. Whatever Sherlock wants to share with him, John will take it.

Sherlock sighs. “You see, I had to gather evidence. So I stayed late after class, took my time while showering and then went over to Mr Rucastle's cubicle. I was just clad in a towel, loitering in the door frame. The minute he looked up at me I knew.” Sherlock makes a retching sound as there seems to be no saliva left in his mouth. 

John just stares at him, wide eyed. He knows Sherlock can be an idiot sometimes but this surpasses even his usual level of stupidity by a million miles.

“Are you telling me that you tried to seduce a paedophile? As a 13 year old boy? Jesus, Sherlock, even you can't be that daft!”

Sherlock finally raises his head and looks at John. His face is a stony mask; but there is a malignant sparkle in his eyes. “I did not just _try_ , John. You know I can be very convincing. Even back then. And I needed proof. Evidence. A sample!” Sherlock attempts to hide behind a façade of passive indifference but unconsciously gives himself away, for his knuckles have turned white as he tightly grips his legs to stay grounded.

“Please, no...” John starts to shake his head and can't stop it.

Sherlock trembles visibly, unable to control the tell-tale signs his body is emanating. “It only happened this one time.” 

“Did he... did you...?” John can't say it.

As an answer Sherlock fixes him with an unwavering stare.

John balls his left hand into a fist and brings it down hard on the floor. “God, please, no. No, no, no,” he murmurs, his voice rough with barely restrained fury.

“When he tried it on again I told him I would report him if he didn't stop. I further suggested for him to leave the school at the end of term. He wisely did.”

“But you didn't tell the police or anyone else?” John still can't believe what he just heard.

“It would have been my word against his. Besides, afterwards... I couldn't...” Sherlock shudders again. “I just couldn't do it, John.” He averts his eyes and stares at the carpet.

“So you did your penance.” John states, barely managing to keep his voice in check.

“It was the least I could do for... His name was Carl. He was so much braver than I was. He got away.” Sherlock’s whisper is barely audible. “I didn't.” He's white as a sheet.

Despite having seen it coming, the impact of this simple statement nearly flattens John. What is he supposed to say to this? Is there anything anyone can say to this? It’s almost unbearable. He feels physical pain as he watches Sherlock, who is slightly rocking himself back and forth, curled into himself.

“Did you try?” John has to know.

Sherlock simply gives a curt nod. “Back home. Mummy's sleeping pills and Daddy's Courvoisier. But I just got sick and threw up. Amateurish...” Sherlock sniffs. 

The silence stretches. Sherlock's voice is raw when he speaks again: “I think Mycroft suspected something was wrong when I came home on that holiday. He tried to talk to me but I couldn't...” He shakes his head and presses his lips into a thin line.

“You were just a child.” John offers gently.

Sherlock looks John dead in the face. His eyes are a deep sea-green. They are pinched but perfectly dry.

“I was never _just a child_!” 

“Sherlock, no!” John feels black, all-consuming anger well up inside him at this staunch remark, imagining how Sherlock must have felt back then - vulnerable, helpless, afraid, perturbed, alone; it enrages John beyond anything. Reduced to a traumatised, self-loathing child Sherlock grew into a man who prefers to call himself a sociopath, unable to see what an amazing, brilliant and unique human being he'd become.

“Honestly, what the fuck…?” John has trouble breathing again. He wants to reach out to his friend, who’s slumped down boneless opposite him. But he stops himself, unsure how Sherlock would react to the touch.

As nothing else is forthcoming, Sherlock just shrugs and lowers his brow back against his knees. John can't see his face anymore and is very grateful for that because it gives both of them some much needed privacy.

“I had a hard enough time with my peers as it was and no one to confide in anyway, so I kept my mouth shut. I just decided to… ignore it all, to forget it. But... you know, we all slept in small dormitories. About eight pubescent boys squashed into one tiny room. You had no personal space, nowhere. Some boys had... magazines. Full of naked women doing inexplicable things. At night they leafed through them and... you know. I was never very much interested in the pictures but... the other boys... At the same time, I was petrified, disgusted with myself. I thought I might become like... Mr Rucastle. So I tried to suppress this... urge... as best as I could. But... in my final year... I met someone.” 

Sherlock looks up again. There’s a touch of colour to his pale cheeks. “His name was Victor. I didn't really like him...“ Sherlock's small laugh lacks any humour. “He was tall, blond, incredibly arrogant. Good at sports. His family arrived in England alongside William the Conqueror. They were still obscenely rich. Victor was quite popular. We moved in different circles.” A strange expression crosses Sherlock's face. “But then one day we were teamed up for a science project. He needed an A in physics to be able to apply to Oxford, like his father and his father before, you know...” John doesn't, but that isn't important right now. “As it happened he was totally ignorant of the concepts of translational and rotational equilibrium. So he needed me.”

John has no idea what Sherlock is talking about but doesn't dare to interrupt.

Sherlock takes a deep breath before he continues: “I did most of the work for our project. We often spent the afternoons behind the boat house. I was reading and writing while Victor was sparking up a spliff and dozing off. Until one day...” Sherlock trails off. “One day he offered me a smoke – and I took it. I didn't like it very much, weed is not my preferred substance, wasn't even back then, but I tried it. It made me dizzy, slow... I remember Victor leaning in, grinning. He took another drag and then pressed his mouth over mine, exhaling. I thought he was playing a prank, trying to rile me up. It took a few seconds before I realised that he didn't pull away. Then he pushed his tongue in. It was wet and sloppy. I froze. It was like drowning. I tried to pull away but he grabbed my head, pushed me down. He shoved his hand inside my trousers and rutted against my thigh, lying half on top of me. He... groaned. His hands were rather clumsy, tugging at me. His tongue was... bold, very unskilled. It was quite unpleasant.” Sherlock looks over John's shoulder, out of the window, losing himself in the grey morning light. “At least it was quick. He didn't have much stamina. He rolled off me, got up and... smiled. He had obviously enjoyed himself. Said we needed to clean up. When I did not answer he strolled off eventually.” Sherlock blinks himself back into reality and sighs.

“And that was that?” John asks.

“No.” Sherlock draws out the syllable to buy his time. “He got the idea that we were somehow... connected after this most undignified encounter. He started to follow me around, waited for me after class, tried to talk to me, visited my dorm, asked me out. To the cinema! Can you believe that? He was indescribably dull. I told him that I wasn't interested. He just smiled. Once he took my hand in his. I... almost hit him.”

John smiles a sad smile. “He must have really fancied you.”

Sherlock shoots him a dark look. “I know, John. While I was genuinely repelled by his presence.”

They both stare at each other until Sherlock has mercy and looks away. John tries to swallow but fails. 

“Anyway, we had to finish this damned paper, so we met again. Victor instantly started to feel me up. I pushed him away. I had no words. Eventually I managed to tell him that we should concentrate on our project. He leered, rolled a joint and started smoking while I leafed through our books and hurried up to finish the equations.” Sherlock's voice is thin, teetering for a short moment on the brink of hysterical giggling. “It was surreal. Victor started to touch himself. He got his penis out and...” Sherlock closes his eyes, shutting out the world as he relives that moment. His voice is very small and low. “I was confused. I told him to stop. He just smirked. He babbled away, fantasising about us moving to London after we'd finished school. His parents had a flat there. It was ridiculous.”

“He was rather smitten.” John says and feels pity for the poor young boy who had the misfortune to fall head over heels for Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock's tone still rings with panic as he continues. “I couldn't stop watching him, John. I wanted to look away but I couldn't. I got hard myself. I pressed my fist against my crotch. Victor saw it. And then he was all over me again. It was just wild fumbling and uncoordinated rubbing but... I couldn't stop. Only when he tried to stick his tongue into my mouth I turned away. I came so hard I almost blacked out. Victor shot his semen all over my stomach. I can still remember him staring at it, putting his fingers into it and painting on my skin. I threw up after that and literally ran away.”

“Oh Sherlock...!” John can't hold it back; it slips past his lips before he can stop himself.

Sherlock's head snaps around but he just frowns at John. “I was just glad when we had handed in our paper. Victor wanted to celebrate. But I couldn't bearbeing in the same room with him. I told him so. I said his attentions were unwanted and his seductive skills quite lacking. The look on his face, John...” Even after all these years Sherlock still sounds uncomprehending. “I saw his heart break. And it did nothing to me. He was just a nuisance I wanted to get rid of but to him I had been something special. He'd really thought that I loved him. He was so stupid. What did he know?”

“You'd been terribly hurt Sherlock. And you were rather badly equipped to handle such situations...”

“I didn't care, John! I still don't.”

John knows that's a blatant lie. He can hardly suppress the urge to smash something, preferably a piece of furniture that would splinter with some noise. _'God, Sherlock...'_ he thinks, but this time he keeps quiet.

“He left school a few days after and did not return. But I had found a new pastime. I had never thought about myself that way but if Victor perceived me as attractive, maybe others did as well? I took them behind the boat house and started to... explore. And let them explore me. Some were not that bad. I didn't always especially like it but I gained experience.” Sherlock tries a weak smile.

“Are we just talking classmates here?”

“No.”

John closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. He draws a deep breath before he feels able to look back at Sherlock. “But they were all... I mean you didn't...?”

Sherlock's eyes bore into John's. “Are you trying to ask if I molested underaged boys? Rest assured John, I didn't. But I did not just stick to pupils. Teachers. Members of staff. I wasn't especially picky.” Beneath Sherlock's salacious smile John can sense a viciously acerbic undercurrent. Sherlock tilts his head slightly before observing: “This turns you on.”

John blushes. But of course, Sherlock is right. Images flood his brain - of Sherlock with other men - and he feels heat pool low in his gut despite violent jealousy roaring through his veins. He can hear his pulse hammer in his ears. John bites the inside of his cheek to calm down a fraction.

“Would you like to hear more? I bet you do. At uni, I experimented. It was interesting. I realised I preferred practices that offered release without too much physical contact. The emphasis on technical elements made sure that only a small amount of intimacy was required. The sex followed precisely negotiated rules, at least most of the time. I could tell you about it in detail if you like.”

John shakes his head but he knows that Sherlock can see how affected he is. He hates himself but can't help it.

Sherlock's face is kind of solemn as he continues. “In addition I discovered cocaine, amphetamines, poppers, ecstasy – I took almost anything that heightened my perceptiveness. Both Mycroft and I had inherited a trust fund from our Grand-Mere, to which we gained access when we turned eighteen. I don't know what Mycroft did with his money but I spent mine on drugs.”

Sherlock seems to expect being reprimanded but John only looks sad. 

“Don't you have anything to say to that?” Sherlock asks briskly. “Something about me risking my health? Wasting my money? Don't you want to lecture me on the benefits of sobriety?”

“Bit late for that, don't you think? Besides, I've been young myself. Though I hadn't the fortune to inherit a trust fond. But I too liked to party, back in the days. Even smoked the odd joint.”

Sherlock smirks and arches an eyebrow. John shrugs. Some of the pent up tension eases as Sherlock continues: “But, as I said, it was just a small trust fund. And I had developed quite expensive habits. In the end, I started to cook my own stuff. As I was studying chemistry, I had access to the equipment and to a variety of substances. At first, I only experimented. It was purely for personal use. But slowly the word spread. I started to sell, small scale, just to meet my expenses.” Sherlock's voice is more steady now as he's on firmer ground. He rests his chin on one of his knee caps and John wonders briefly what kind of conversation one must have if confessing to drug trafficking seems the easy part.

“In the end someone found out. Mycroft intervened on my behalf, so the college refrained from involving the police. I was simply sent down. It was not that I had particularly liked uni but studying had somehow organised my days. There had been schedules, lab time, tutorials – now there was nothing.” He bites his lower lip as he remembers the lost young man he had been back then. “I didn't want to go home to my parents, so I had to stay with Mycroft. I went cold turkey for about a week, locked into my room. My brother insisted on rehab but I told him to shut it and piss off. I survived, got clean... and bored. Mycroft nagged me about my future plans. You know he can be a real pain in the arse and at that time I wasn't... stable. After a rather bad row he eventually threw me out.”

John rolls his stiff shoulders. Mycroft Holmes has just sunken even lower in his estimation.

“No, John.” Sherlock once again seems to read his thoughts. “We didn't just yell at each other while I dramatically broke some china. I tried to stab him with a kitchen knife. I cut him, twice, before he could wrench the blade out of my hands. He still has a scar.”

John swallows. “He really should have insisted on admitting you to hospital,” he says finally but it's a weak complaint, since John knows how obstinate Sherlock can be.

Sherlock just shrugs. “I think he's been tormenting himself with the same reproach ever since.” He smiles a lopsided smile. “Tough luck.” They both grin.

Sherlock doesn't continue his narrative and John is not sure if he should probe for more. But as they have come this far he finally decides that he wants to know all Sherlock is prepared to disclose.

“So, what happened? Where did you go?”

“I lived rough. On the streets. Slept in squats. That's where I met the founding members of my homeless network.” Sherlock twists his lips and it takes John a moment to recognise it as a smile. Nothing else is forthcoming.

John doesn't think about his next question; he just asks it because he's curious: “What did you live on? Did you, I don't know... pickpocket tourists on Trafalgar Square? Scrounged for some change?”

Instead of an answer, Sherlock gives John a hard look. John grins back. Something in the atmosphere shifts. Sherlock unfolds, leans against the sofa, stretching his long arms and legs.

“I need a shower,” he states abruptly, getting up, pulling a face.

John is both baffled and alleviated that their conversation is over, just like this. However, no one's shouting or fleeing from the room; that should count for something with the two of them.

“I'll make breakfast in the meantime. And you will eat it, Sherlock Holmes.”

“But I just ate last night...”

John doesn't want to hear about this. “But me no buts! You'll at least have some toast.”

Sherlock stares back at John as if to ascertain how determined his flatmate is and if he himself has the energy to fight him. After a long moment, Sherlock gives the briefest nod before turning and heading to the bathroom.

“If you say so, Doctor,” he quips over his shoulder, sauntering off.

\----------

Later, they sit at their kitchen table, John working steadfastly through a plate of eggs and mushrooms, Sherlock nibbling toast and drinking sugary tea while the tips of his still-wet hair soak and darken the neck of his blue silk dressing gown.

John has averted his eyes and is staring down at his plate after spotting a purple mark on the junction of Sherlock's shoulder and neck; it's none of his business, really, but it blatantly reminds John of what Sherlock has been up to last night. John can't face him, not like this – wet, half naked, clad only in clingy silk, displaying the evidence of another man's access to his body. So he shovels eggs into his mouth, rather surprised he can eat at all. But as he hasn't slept and Sherlock's story has disturbed him, he just needs sustenance to keep going.

Sherlock is absent-mindedly stirring even more sugar in his tea while his eyes rest thoughtfully on John, who is by now used to being scrutinised by this sharp, otherworldly gaze; but today it's suddenly all a bit too much.

“What?” John snaps, yanking up his head and squaring his shoulders as if preparing for an onslaught.

Sherlock jumps a little, startled. John pinches the bridge of his nose with thumb and index finger.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I'm sorry, it's just...” he trails off, his eyes pinched.

“Yes?” Sherlock's voice is low and carefully void of any emotion.

“Nothing.” John looks down at his plate but the remains of his breakfast don't offer any kind on condolence. He pushes it away, all at once slightly put off.

“Don't!” Sherlock retorts, firm and a little vicious. When John faces him again he can sense barely controlled rage simmering beneath Sherlock's prim demeanour.

They look at each other over their kitchen table, fixing each other with a stare, Sherlock's challenging and defiant, John's open and apprehensive.

“What I told you,” Sherlock hesitates before continuing, “does it change what you... think of me?” Sherlock seems a bit at a loss, a very rare condition at 221b.

John considers his words before he tentatively replies: “I'm not sure how to handle it. I'll need some time. To come to terms?” John doesn't mind that his confusion shows. He knows that now is not the moment to hide. Besides, Sherlock would see through it anyway.

Sherlock leans back in his chair opposite John, folds his hands and rests his interlaced fingers on the kitchen table. He needs a moment to contemplate what John has just said.  
“That seems to be only reasonable.” Sherlock states eventually, his voice calm and rather cold.

“It breaks my heart, nonetheless.” John takes Sherlock's hands in his, stroking his thumb over too-prominent knuckles. Sherlock relaxes a fraction and turns his hands palms up, gripping John's wrists, holding onto him.

“Please, let me help you. Whatever it is you need... I'll try my best to give it to you.” John is actually blushing. He's not used to giving such emotional reassurances; and Sherlock is not used to receiving them.

“I fear you might be very sorry very quickly.” Sherlock whispers and his voice cracks a little.

“That's for me to worry about, don't you think?”

Sherlock shrugs but doesn't pull his hands away. John is watching him intensely.

They stay like this for some minutes. John takes in Sherlock, his eyes wide and dark, lips slightly parted, hair in disarray. He is so pale and thin, nearly translucent; it makes something inside John ache.

As Sherlock stirs and pulls his hands away he blinks a few times, then coughs.

“Hey,” John smiles, gets up and starts to clear the table. He doesn't expect Sherlock to help him and is therefore surprised as Sherlock comes up beside him, placing crockery on the counter.

John half-turns and glances up at Sherlock, who stretches almost catlike before nuzzling his face against John's neck. The dressing gown slides from his shoulder and reveals his chest and arm, lean muscles contracting beneath creamy skin. Sherlock doesn't pull it up again but presses his warm body flush against John's. He's very obviously naked underneath the soft, cool fabric and John suddenly, desperately wants to brush his fingertips over the downy dark hair trailing down Sherlock's lower belly. But he just moves a little bit closer and almost unconsciously licks his lips.

“May I ask you something?” John murmurs against Sherlock's by-now-dry and fluffy curls. He smells of rosemary and soap and shaving cream and toothpaste and Sherlock.  
“You just did.” Sherlock retorts in a lazy voice. His breath wafts over John's skin.

John just grins. “What happened to that Victor?”

Sherlock stiffens, then pulls away. He shrugs his robe back on as if suddenly struck by modesty. Instead of looking at John, he gazes at the ceiling, apparently fascinated by the meandering cracks in the plaster and the flaking paint.

“He didn't go to Oxford but went on to study at the LSE. Got a job in the city afterwards. Married. Neither attempt was successful. His wife left him. Ran off with her fitness trainer. After that, Victor took to the bottle. Died in a car crash about three years ago. Drunk driving. Veered off the road on a straight track, hitting a tree... Suspicious. But, as almost always, no one wanted to ask too many questions.”

“You kept tabs on him?”

The following silence lingers.

“So, he's dead.” John states matter-of-factly as he starts to rinse their mugs and plates.

“Yep. And I'm alive. Once could be written off as coincidence but twice is a pattern. Makes you think.”

“It absolutely does.” John agrees, staring down into the murky water sloshing in the sink. “We all have a past. Things happen to us. Imagine never anything happening to you.”  
Sherlock turns to look back at John. “Wouldn't that be boring?” A slightly devilish grin curls Sherlock's impossible lips.

John remembers his therapy sessions after he'd been discharged, an invalid, lonely, without purpose. He thinks about his own upbringing, his parents, Harry. He thinks about Afghanistan. “But... not you. You weren't supposed....” John's voice is hoarse with emotion. He can't go on.

“I don't think one has much choice in it.” Sherlock smiles and it's a genuine smile, warm and open and a little bit sad.

John swallows, then nods curtly. Without drying his hands, he reaches for Sherlock, gets hold of his face and kisses him, sweet and undemanding and oh-so-reassuring.  
“But that was not what you wanted to ask.” Sherlock murmurs against John's lips, a little bit breathless while soapy dishwater runs down his cheeks.

“No, it wasn't. But it's ok. It doesn't matter. Not right now. We'll have all the time in the world. I don't want to talk any more right now.” John steals another soft, almost chaste kiss.

“John, I can't...”

“You don't have to. Just let me...”

Sherlock melts into John's embrace, relaxing, sighing contently as John strokes his hair and his back. They stay like this for a long while – and it's enough.


	13. Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John thinks everything is going quite smoothly between him and Sherlock but as it turns out he is hugely mistaken. Unexpected revelations about Sherlock lead to a confrontation that nearly ruins the fragile balance the two men had achieved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd in record time by the oh so talented **Lockedinjohnlock**. Check her out on AO3 or tumblr lockedinjohnlock-podfics.tumblr.com

The next few days are surprisingly placid and tranquil. A few private clients call on Sherlock with comparatively mundane problems – unfaithful spouses, thieving relatives, fraudulent employees. It's easy but it keeps Sherlock... well, if not busy, at least entertained and occupied. Therefore, he's moderately good-humoured.

They are sharing Sherlock's bed in a mostly platonic way despite some ferocious snogging. They touch more often as well; small, casual touches like patting shoulders, nudging one another or placing a hand on the small of each other's back. When they sit on their sofa in the evenings, (John watching telly; Sherlock reading, typing, texting, plastering himself with nicotine patches, sipping tea and, on Tuesday, poking around in an old printer with a screw driver and soldering bolt) their shoulders or thighs are pressed together. It's rather nice, Sherlock reckons; unobtrusive but promising.

When John announces on Thursday that he'll meet Lestrade at the DI's local in the evening, Sherlock just arches an eyebrow and gives a reaffirming nod.

“Fine, I can do with some time on my own. I have some kidneys to tend to.”

“'Course you have.” John is, by now, ok with intestines. Whole body parts still make him a little queasy when unexpectedly encountered in the fridge – or anywhere else Sherlock might think expedient to deposit them, they look so very human and remind John of his own mortality, whereas internal organs only remind him of specimens in medical school.

John arrives a few minutes late at the pub. Sherlock had kept distracting him and it got a bit heated. John vividly remembers cupping Sherlock's arse in his hands, massaging the firm flesh through the thin cotton pyjama pants hanging loosely from Sherlock's hips while grinding against Sherlock's evident erection. John had been so turned on he could have taken Sherlock on their kitchen table (even amid human bowels). But as things stand (no pun intended), he'd disentangled himself reluctantly from a panting Sherlock – cheeks flushed pink, eyes dark, mouth gaping in a disappointed pout – and excused himself.

Greg looks tired but pleased to see him. He's already nursing a pint of London Pride. John orders the same and takes a deep gulp before easing himself up onto a stool next to Lestrade at the bar. The TV set is switched on – a big plasma thing dangling precariously above the far edge of the counter – but the volume is turned down to an acceptable level, not blaring, while still audible. Fulham is playing Cardiff at Craven Cottage; it's a draw at the moment.

“How's the game?” John asks. He's not really into football but he knows Greg is and he wants to make up for being late.

“Don't care. Not my teams. Cheers.”

They clink glasses.

“Sorry I'm late. Next round's on me,” John offers.

“Sure it is.” Greg smiles. “How are things?”

“Well, you know...” He very much hopes Greg doesn't. “Same old stuff. His Nibs is amusing himself with some kidneys tonight.”

“We are not talking the kind you'd put in a pie?”

“Nope. At least I wouldn't. He might. He's curious.” 

They both grin.

“Why are we always talking about Sherlock?” Greg watches John with sharp but kind eyes and John fears he might be blushing. “Is there nothing else in your life?”

Apparently not, John wants to say, but he just smirks and looks away and plays with his beer mat.

“How's the wife?” he asks instead, which is an obvious diversion but he doesn't want to lie to Lestrade and can't be honest with him either – it's too fresh and raw, whatever IT is, and John doesn't even know if Sherlock wants to go public with it (a few weeks ago John would have thought Sherlock didn't care but now he's not so sure. No, that's not true – a few weeks ago John would have dropped dead if anyone had suggested he might share Sherlock's bed and be allowed to kiss him until he's cross-eyed, so he’d never reached the stage where he could contemplate confessing being in love with the git).

Greg's gaze lingers but he just frowns at the sudden change of topic as a shadow briefly darkens his features. Instead of pursuing the question that's obviously on the tip of his tongue, the DI leans back and starts a lengthy tale evolving around Mrs Lestrade's plans to convert the attic into some kind of studio, now that the daughter has moved out.

This leads to some sour lamenting of the whims of middle-aged suburban housewives with too much time on their hands ( _'At least she's not having it off with the PE teacher anymore,' John thinks to himself, 'you should be glad she took up water colours instead, mate.'_ ). John dutifully asks about Lestrade's daughter, now away at university. Greg deplores the horrendous fees but John can sense the proud father underneath the grumbling; she's the first in the family to take a degree and Lestrade revels in delight while he complains about the difficult business of selecting, enrolling at and affording a good College.

“What's she studying?”

“Chemistry. Never got the hang of it but she just loves it. She's pretty smart. And it's a really good career opportunity, what with biotech and everything.”

They are now well into their third round.

“Sherlock studied chemistry as well. At Cambridge, I believe,” John blurts out without thinking, yet again returning to his favourite subject.

“I know but that place was a bit out of the question for us. Mind, she had the marks and all – but her amongst those toffs? That's just not our cup of tea...” Lestrade shakes his head. “She might've ended up marrying a duke.” He looks outright disgusted at the prospect.

“Did you know that Sherlock never finished his degree? He got sent down...”

“I know.” Lestrade shifts, uneasy.

There's a short silence. Both men stare down into their half-empty glasses.

“You know why?” John asks tentatively after a minute, his gaze wandering over to the telly. Fulham gets a free kick but nothing comes of it.

Lestrade coughs but says nothing. When John finally looks at him, the DI seems to be deep in thought.

“It's ok, he told me.” John feels the need to clarify. Perhaps Lestrade wants to protect him from the ugly truth?

Instead of relaxing at least a bit, Greg tenses visibly at John's words, sitting up and pulling back his shoulders. His face goes stony, mouth tight; John has only seen him like this when a case got pretty tough. John is taken aback a little and raises his glass to his mouth to hide his puzzlement.

Just when he's quite sure that he will not get an answer from Greg, the DI enquires in a cautious tone: “Sherlock talked to you about his past?” Greg furrows his brow in consternation.

“A bit, yeah.” John still doesn't know how much Lestrade knows; he doesn't want to breach Sherlock's confidence. Better keep it vague.

“About the drugs?” Greg presses.

“Among other things.”

Lestrade takes a large swig as if to steel himself, then looks down into his nearly empty glass before asking in a very low voice: “Is that why you wanted to meet? To talk about... that?” He half turns his head and watches John, expressionless, from the corner of his eyes.

Called out like that, John realises that the intention to confide in someone might have been at least part of his invitation to Greg. Lestrade's one of the few people John has met who knew Sherlock back then – at least that's what John assumes.

“Maybe.” He shrugs.

“What exactly did he tell you?” To John's astonishment Lestrade sounds somehow alarmed.

John hesitantly answers: “Fairly grim stuff actually. It seemed to me it was the first time Sherlock talked about some of this to anyone.” John shakes his head; it still hurts remembering. “During that conversation your acquaintance came up briefly.”

Suddenly Lestrade grabs John's upper arm, nearly knocking him of his seat.

“Listen, John, I really didn’t know what to do with him back then. I tried but…” Greg is lost, desperately searching for the right words and failing. He swallows hard, searching John’s face with his eyes: “John, I'm sorry.”

John's incomprehension must show. “Greg, I... what the hell are you talking about?”

But Lestrade doesn't seem to hear him and just ploughs on: “What he did to make a living… I think, to him, it was just services rendered. A simple exchange. But sometimes it seemed like he was… fading away. Jesus, if you'd seen him back then! He looked like death warmed up. Hit it pretty hard. Lived rough. Willow thin, you'd thought he might snuff it any minute. But of course he couldn't resist pissing everybody off who might offer him help.” Greg cringes at the dark unwanted memories. To calm himself he downs the rest of his pint.

John suddenly feels sick as Lestrade’s word sink in. “What do you mean by _‘services rendered’_?” All other noise is drowned out. There's only him and Lestrade confined in a bubble filled with dread.

The DI nervously licks his lips. “John, I thought he told you?”

Cold horror creeps down John’s spine to pool, leaden, in his gut. “I’m not sure we are on the same page here, Greg.” His voice cracks.

Lestrade's face pales. He loosens his tie to ease his breathing. “You should ask him, John,” is all he says.

“Ha! As if that would help!” John barks, his tone curt and sharp. “Tell me, what happened.”

Greg shakes his head. “Listen, mate, I don’t know how things stand between you. Just… ask him, okay?”

“About what, exactly? I’m really not sure what you are hinting at.” But that’s a lie. John fears he knows exactly what Lestrade is alluding to.

The DI just stares down into his now empty pint glass.

“Greg, please. You know he won’t tell me…” John begs in an urgent whisper.

“Then perhaps you should just accept that?” Greg finally looks at John. His eyes are dark but understanding; his whole expression shows deep concern.

John suddenly experiences a strange kind of vertigo. The room shifts and skids sideways. He can’t breathe properly. ‘Please, not again’, John thinks, grabbing the bar as not to slide off his seat. He fears he might throw up any minute.

“John?” Lestrade’s voice seems to come from far away. Instead of answering John just gets up and stumbles towards the door. His leg feels wobbly. No, stop that! He senses Lestrade following him but doesn't turn until they are both outside on the pavement.

“John! John, wait...” Lestrade's hand lands on his left shoulder.

John spins around and violently shrugs it off.

“Get away from me!” he spits. His face must be contorted in fury and disgust, for Greg takes a step back and raises both his hands.

“Listen, I should have tried harder. But you know how stubborn he can be. Back then he was an accident waiting to happen. No purpose, no future. When I once suggested rehab he vanished from my radar for weeks. I really tried to be his friend but he made it pretty damn hard for me.”

“His friend? His friend?!” John is yelling now. A few passers-by turn but he doesn't give a shit. “What did you really do to help him? How could you... stand by and watch him... destroy himself?” The sheer abhorrence of what Sherlock might have endured to afford his habit threatens to overwhelm John. He has to brace his hands on his knees, all air knocked out of him. Now John knows why Sherlock can perform perfectly lecherous blow jobs. The detachment in Sherlock's eyes... like he was somehow distancing himself from what his body was doing... the offer of sex to make amends... Bile burns sour in John's throat. He retches violently.

Confronted with John's misery, Lestrade takes a step towards him. “John, please. You know him best. Back then his world revolved around smack.” Lestrade stuffs his hands into his pockets, turns his head and looks into the distance. He finally seems to have come to a conclusion. “I was working vice at the time. Met him when he got arrested during a drugs bust at some illegal West End club. He was so… different from the other boys. His voice… you couldn’t avoid noticing that he came from some place posh. Well bred. I wondered how he ended up, well, you know… there. We got talking. I bought him a coffee. Despite being high as a kite he was still super smart and sharp, as you can imagine.” Greg smiles a little at the memory.

John huffs. Hysterical giggles rise up in his throat. “I was just wondering how you two met. I even joked about it... God, I'm such a daft prick sometimes.” John straightens his back, shaking his head.

Greg turns to face him; the DI, too, is visibly shaken. The hand he rakes through his silver hair trembles. Eventually he says: “I tried to keep an eye on him. But it’s impossible to keep track of Sherlock Holmes if he doesn’t want you to.”

John stares at Lestrade and his fists clench. “It must have been quite a surprise when that junky smackhead turned up a few years later as some clever consulting detective.”

“It wasn't like that.” Greg sounds somehow resigned.

“Then tell me, what happened?!” John has to know, even if he doesn’t want to.

Greg looks John straight in the eye. “You sure about that?”

“Yes, Greg. I'm so beyond the point of no return right now that I don't think anything you'll tell me can make it any worse!”

Lestrade sighs. “If you really have to know, he got involved with a rather bad lot. And then he was just gone. Vanished. I made some inquiries – nothing came of it. I feared the worst. Until one evening when I’d been working late, a black car pulled up at the curb just as I left the station to walk home.” They share a knowing look. “I was driven to some warehouse. God, I nearly shit myself. Thought my last hour was up. We had a… talk. I was informed that Sherlock had left London and was presently residing in Florida. That he would be used as a drug mule to smuggle cocaine into the UK. That his flight was due to land next Tuesday morning. That I was to arrest him, then escort him straight to a house in Norwood where I would hand him over. My objection that I wasn’t even on the drugs squad was met with a dry smile. ‘You are now’ Mycroft informed me. And that was that.” Greg's face has turned ashen. John just stares at the man with a mixture of disbelief and fascination. “But of course it all went to hell. Sherlock spotted us at Heathrow and smelled a rat. As he started to run he crashed into another passenger. One of the condoms he’d swallowed ruptured and he collapsed. We got him to hospital just in time. Shortly after, Mycroft arrived and took over. Very efficient, that man. Would stop at nothing to protect his little brother.”

John is shell-shocked. He tries to breathe evenly; his leg threatens, once more, to give out. He has to close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose to focus as Greg continues.

“A few months later, Mycroft Holmes graced my office with a visit one late Friday evening. He was very polite; I give him that. He asked me if I could employ his little brother, offer him cold cases to work on. Mind, I knew Sherlock was some kind of a weird genius. And Mycroft made it very clear that, should I refuse, my superiors would receive information within the next 24 hours that would lead to me losing everything - my job, my pension, my wife and kid. So of course I agreed. And here we are.” Greg shrugs, then hunches his shoulders and buries his hands deeper into his coat pockets, avoiding John's gaze.

John suddenly feels drained and exhausted. All fight is knocked out of him. He simply shakes his head as he turns away, walking through the dark London streets towards the nearest tube station, leaving Lestrade behind. Some people stop and stare at him but he doesn't bother. Only when the sharp, cold draught on the downward escalators leading to the platform hits him full in the face does John realise that his cheeks are wet.

\-----------

Sherlock is bent over his microscope when John slowly shuffles into the kitchen. He had hoped that the tube ride might calm him down but that proved to be wishful thinking. Instead, he got even more agitated. He doesn't know what to say but they have to talk about this. He has to tell Sherlock that he knows. What might happen afterwards – John has no idea.

Sherlock realises the second John cautiously closes the door behind him that something terrible must have happened.

His hands still resting on the focus knobs, Sherlock goes very still and simply asks: “John?”

John looks around, his gaze wild and confused, before grabbing the next firm surface within reach. Clinging to the table top he sinks down onto a chair but avoids meeting Sherlock's eyes.

Strange, Sherlock thinks. John likes to look at him, even more so now that he feels he's allowed to do it openly and with appreciation.

“John? Do you feel sick?” There's no answer forthcoming; only a huffing, sobbing sound escaping John's throat. It's muffled because he presses one fist against his lips.

“Shall I get a bucket?” The situation reminds Sherlock of how all this started; it's a bizarre hunch, like being trapped in some kind of reversing time loop, which is not totally impossible, only very, very improbable. But perhaps musings on the linearity of time are a bit beside the point at the moment?

John shakes his head; it's a small but livid movement. Then he takes a deep breath. Sherlock steels himself for what is to come.

“How many secrets are you keeping from me?” John finally asks, his voice conscientiously kept in check.

Ah, ok, this is about trust. John has trust issues. So this is important. But there are still too many variables Sherlock doesn't know about. He has to acquire more data.

“Is that a general question or are you alluding to something specific?” Sherlock tries not to sound aloof but seems to fail, for John sighs in exasperation. “Both.”

“You can't answer a disjunctive question with 'both'. That doesn't make any sense. Or are you trying to be funny?” Sherlock fears this might spiral out of control rather quickly but can’t fall back on any other pattern of behaviour than seeking refuge behind a verbal wall of apparently indifferent mockery.

“Do I look like I'm joking?” There's an edge to John's voice; Sherlock has to be careful.

“Not particularly, no.” Maybe now would be a good time to relent a little? “But I'm not good with reading other people's emotions, so please forgive me if I ask the obvious.” Sherlock lowers his hands into his lap, folds them and turns fully towards John, watching him with anticipation.

“Ok, let me rephrase my question: How did you meet Lestrade?” John's clipped tone makes Sherlock nearly recoil. He sits a bit more upright, swallows and tries to access how much John knows. Is it too late for damage control?

This is something Sherlock had wanted to keep away from John at all costs. It reminds Sherlock of a time he doesn't want to revisit. Nor does he want to share his experiences with anyone, least of all the man he shares his life with.

“Why?” Sherlock stalls.

Not a wise move. John slams his fist into the table. “Because I'm asking you. Is it that difficult to remember how you met one of your oldest... pals?”

Sherlock doesn't like this tone. He looks really hard at John. Pub, three pints, talk. A revelation. Shock. Afterwards John took the tube home. He has cried.

“Why do you interrogate me if Lestrade has already told you?” Sherlock really doesn't want to remember the dark and seedy mishaps of his past.

“Because I need to hear it from you.” John growls.

“No, believe me, you don't. I don't want to talk about it and you obviously know, so why force me to spell it out?” Sherlock can't.

“Because I think I am entitled to! What I mean is I have to know what happened to you so I can... protect you.”

“What makes you think I need protection?” Sherlock's voice is cold.

“Because those things you did... they surely come back to haunt you. I don't want to trigger... something bad.” John is stammering, his face flushed red in embarrassment. “Lestrade told me how you funded you habit.” He can't go on. His voice just dies.

Sherlock sits up ramrod straight. He briefly closes his eyes before making a decision. The best defence is offense. “Oh, John, does this hurt your middle class modesty? I was a rent boy for some time. How did you think I was able to afford cocaine without any other means of income?”

There. It's out, lingering between them, ugly, repellant and gross.

Sherlock doesn't move. He won't blush or flinch. Just stick to the bare facts. “I needed the money. There was nothing else to it. No need for you to get flustered. As much as I appreciate your jealous streak...”

“Flustered? Sherlock, I'm not jealous! I am...”

“Disgusted.”

“Sad.”

“Oh.” Sherlock's lips form a perfect pink circle around this one syllable.

“And upset.” John sounds devastated and raw, almost near breaking point. “How could you...?”

“I was warped most of the time.” Sherlock sighs. “John, I honestly can't remember much about it.”

“Oh, Sherlock...” John's at his wit's end. He doesn't want to imagine what might have happened but pictures creep into his mind nonetheless: Sherlock, thin and pale, young and ethereal, eyes dark and hair dishevelled, his impossible lips stretched around another man's cock, gagging while taking it deep; his long slender fingers closing around an erect penis protruding from carelessly shoved down trousers and pants in the back seat of a car. Sherlock bracing himself against a dirty brick wall, scruffy black trousers pooling around his ankles, a stark contrast to his white skin, glowing in the light of a single street lamp as a faceless man pushes into him, relentless. Sherlock biting down on his forearm, his gaunt face distorted in pain while he tries to mimic sounds of pleasure and encouragement.

John almost misses the kitchen sink. He retches forcibly as he brings up remnants of his dinner mixed with beer. The sour smell of vomit spreads in their kitchen as John wipes his eyes and mouth with the back of his hand, trying to get his breathing under control. He hangs onto the counter for dear life, unable to look at Sherlock who is still sitting on his chair behind him.

“I'd rather wished for you to have stayed ignorant of these aspects of my past.” Sherlock is surprised that his concern is audible in his voice. He aimed for haughty with a pinch of scorn but sounds worried and rattled instead.

“Sorry, what?” John has turned the tabs on in an attempt to clean the sink and wash his mouth. He sips a handful of water, sloshing it around in his mouth before spitting it out.

Sherlock waits until John has repeated this task before speaking again: “It doesn't matter anymore. Water under the bridge. Let’s forget this discussion ever happened.”

“Don't give me that bullshit, Sherlock.” As John finally turns around to face Sherlock, he's very pale, with a greenish touch to his features; sweat is beading at his hairline, darkening his fringe. He looks as if he has aged ten years in the last ten minutes.

They are both silent, muted by all the unspoken accusations hanging between them, making the atmosphere thick and charged with helpless wrath. John's eyes burn. Sherlock's lips are pressed into a tight, straight line.

“Would you ever have told me?” John asks after a while.

“Probably not.” Truth seems to be the only way left out of this mess.

John nods once.

“Anything else lurking in your past?” he enquires, almost nonchalantly but his hollow voice and sagging shoulders betray him.

“You wouldn't want to know.” Sherlock is quite certain of this.

“Yes, I would. I do. I have to.” John steps up to Sherlock, almost towering over him – a strange new angle – his hands clenched into fists at either side of his tense, staunch body.

Sherlock suddenly feels anger welling up inside him. “Why is it always me, John? Do I ask about Afghanistan? Or the army? Harry? Your parents?” Sherlock has to tilt his head slightly back to look John in the face. He can see a vein starting to throb at John's temple.

“That's not the same...” John growls, baring his teeth.

But Sherlock interrupts him, finally snapping: “Yes, it is. We all have a past. Grow up and live with it!”

Sherlock gets up, pushing his chair back but then has no idea what to do next. He stands in the middle of the kitchen and wonders if he should just leave. John's body, only inches away, is radiating scarcely suppressed rage. Sherlock suddenly knows that this will end badly.

“But my past doesn't feature shagging half of London. I didn't sell my body to anyone who offered me a fiver!” John explodes, brimming with helpless confusion transformed into vicious anger. He wants to hurt this stupid git, pierce his armour, crack him open and expose him. Know him. Own him.

Sherlock's fist crushes against John's jaw with surprising force and accuracy, splitting the upper lip and loosening at least one canine. John tumbles backwards, shocked. 

“What the fuck, Sherlock...” he gurgles as blood spills from his mouth.

Sherlock freezes for a moment; his knuckles hurt. He watches blood drip onto John's inoffensively chequered shirt and the greyish linoleum. Slowly, as if in trance, he eventually turns and passes John one of their not-too-clean tea towels. John takes it and presses it against his face, hissing in pain.

“Does it hurt?” Sherlock asks.

“Of course it hurts, you daft twat.” John snarls, his voice muffled by the cloth.

“Good.”

John dabs at his lip until the bleeding slows. Then he strides past Sherlock into the bathroom to inspect the damage. Sherlock trails behind.

“Proud of yourself?” John asks Sherlock's reflection in the mirror.

“A bit.” Sherlock smirks.

John shakes his head, then probes at his teeth. Some are wobbly but it's not too bad. “Good punch.”

“I know.” Sherlock’s voice is velvety deep.

The too-bright fluorescent light above the basin hums and flickers. They hold each other's gaze as Sherlock steps up behind John and puts both his hands on the shorter man's shoulders. He brushes his nose up the nape of John's neck before whispering into his ear: “Never talk to me like that again, John.”

John relaxes a fraction, then nods. He coughs, still tasting vomit. “I need a wash,” he mumbles, not moving, lost in the sensation of Sherlock pressing an open-mouthed kiss just above his collar. Then Sherlock starts to nibble and suck before biting down on sensitive skin. John moans and tilts his head a little to allow Sherlock better access. As Sherlock finally releases him he has sucked a purple mark onto John's throat.

John stares right into Sherlock's slate grey eyes in the mirror as he speaks, his voice way more steady than he actually feels: “So, where do I sleep tonight?”

“Take your shower.” Sherlock whispers and there's a dark promise resonating in his tone that makes John's knees buckle. “Then come to bed with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be due in August. Finally prepare for epic making out...


	14. Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ok, here we go. There has been so much hurt, despair and darkness - but now they'll finally make good. Thank you all for staying with me and this story for so long! I'll hope you enjoy...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite being on hiatus Lockedinjohnlock took it upon her to beta these 15 pages of smut I dropped in her inbox! Thank you so much for it! Look her up on AO3 or follow her on tumblr @lockedinjohnlock-podfics.tumblr.com! It's truly worth it!

Sherlock's room is almost dark as John enters; only the orange light from the street is filtering dimly through the curtains. John is just clad in his pants – naked would have been a bit too much but putting more clothes on seemed superfluous also and as he's not sure what to expect, coming onto Sherlock wrapped only in a towel might be considered a bit too intimidating.

Sherlock stands in the middle of the room, still fully dressed. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, leaving his forearms exposed. John briefly thinks he's made the totally wrong assumption, until Sherlock steps up to him, bows his head, brings his hands up to either side of John's face and slowly brushes his lips against John's.

They kiss, softly at first, but then more and more insistently. John's split lip stings but he doesn't care; Sherlock can taste his blood. It's carnal... and very arousing.

“May I turn the lights on?” John asks.

“Why?” Sherlock breathes against John's mouth, sounding a little bit irritated.

“Because I want to see you.”

As Sherlock does not protest, John switches on the bedside lamp. The room is cast in low light.

John turns back to Sherlock, brushing his palms up pale, sinewy forearms. He can feel the firm flesh and lean muscles as he strokes up and down. Sherlock is so beautiful like this, anxious and flushed, his sharp features accentuated by the diffuse lighting. He is wearing a tight shirt with the first button undone. His pulse is hammering in his throat, barely visible inside his open shirt collar.

John has to press his mouth against that fluttering heartbeat. He starts mouthing down Sherlock's neck, brushing the collar aside with his nose, then sucks. He remembers the faded mark Gibson had left at the same spot as if laying a claim to Sherlock's body. 'But he's mine now,' John muses. 'Mine!'

He pulls back to stare up at Sherlock. “You are mine,” he growls and something crosses Sherlock's face as if caught off guard; he seems confused. Sherlock's white collar and the milky skin beneath are smeared with bright red streaks of blood. He looks positively ravaged.

John lets his base primal impulses take over, pulls Sherlock close again and continues biting and sucking on Sherlock's neck until he reaches the tender suprasternal notch. He licks there, hastily undoing another button to get better access to Sherlock's collar bone, tasting salty sweat and shaving cream.

“Ok?” John mumbles and as an answer, Sherlock tilts his head back and exposes even more of his long pale throat. John takes it as consent.

In return, Sherlock's hands, which have been dangling idly at his side, come up to skim over John's bare back. John hisses when Sherlock's cold fingers touch his warm skin as he begins to stroke John's spine.

Sherlock huffs in amusement. In revenge, John steals another deep kiss.

Over the next few minutes, John takes his time undressing Sherlock, tasting every inch of bare skin he reveals while Sherlock gets more and more brusque, obviously unhappy with the slow progression. His hands flutter over John's back, arse and hips while his eyes waft over John's body in wonder, taking in the scar blooming on John's shoulder, the thick golden hair covering John's chest, his dark nipples, the freckles spreading over his shoulders. John stills as he realises that he is being scanned and lets Sherlock's eyes explore, catalogue and stow away all the information he's surely collecting at this moment. “Take your time, there's no rush.”

When Sherlock finally starts blinking again, John undoes the last of Sherlock's buttons. His movements are slightly restricted by their close proximity which inspires John to press his face against the exposed pale skin of Sherlock's smooth chest. He smiles as he whispers, “Like what you see?”

There's no answer forthcoming as Sherlock still seems to be gone somewhere far away. But because John actually prefers his partners to be present in the bedroom he decides to bring him back. And the best way to get Sherlock's attention John can think of right now, is to start gently circling Sherlock's right nipple with the tip of his tongue once, twice. It works; Sherlock sucks in his breath, abruptly pulled out of his reverie.

John brushes the knuckles of his left hand over Sherlock's quivering abdomen. “Hey, there you are. How about we slow down a bit, hm?” he murmurs.

Sherlock only sighs; it's not a passionate expression but rather fuelled by exasperation. “You want to go even slower?” he asks sardonically but then he gets a bit breathless as John continues to pay attention to his nipple, by now a hard nub of rosy pink flesh.

John just hums in response, stroking his fingertips gently up and down Sherlock's heaving sides. “God, you are such a tease, John Watson,” Sherlock chuckles and as much as his impatience is still evident in his tone, there's also a definite raw huskiness that betrays his attitude.

“And you like it.” John grins against hot skin, now not so pale anymore but slightly flushed, before plunging just a little bit lower, grazing his teeth over Sherlock's pectorals. That elicits a very lewd moan.

“Your observational skills... god, do that again,” Sherlock almost whimpers.

“Always so imperious...”

“And if I said please?”

“If?” John looks up at Sherlock from under his long blond lashes.

“Please...” Sherlock gasps.

Having reduced Sherlock Holmes to a begging mess, John thinks he can start dishing out rewards. So he does as he's told, adding his fingernails, raking them over Sherlock's back underneath his loosened shirt.

“Like this?”

“Yes,” Sherlock's voice hitches, dreamy and breathless.

He looks at John with dark eyes, then pulls him close, their bare chests touching. Their skin is warm and damp, already a little bit sweaty. Sherlock bows further down and presses his lips to the scar on John's shoulder. His tongue is darting out as he licks over the severed flesh and muscle, then transfers his attention to John's collar bone, tentatively dipping into the hollow above with only the tip of his tongue. After a moment, he moves over to the right shoulder, nuzzling, brushing lips and nose over taught tendons. It feels odd when Sherlock's stubble scrapes against John's neck but it is the first time that Sherlock takes his time to explore John's body so he doesn't protest.

Sherlock circles John, kissing down from the nape of his neck to his shoulder blades, sucking on each protruding vertebrae. Calloused fingertips brush over John's back, coming to a halt at the waistband of John's pants. While Sherlock rests his cheek against the back of John's head, he skims his palms over John's hips until they press against John's crotch, where his leaking cock has left a wet spot. Sherlock palms it, humming in appreciation as John's cock gives a reciprocal twitch while Sherlock pulls John's back flush against his chest.

John can feel Sherlock's erection through the thin cotton of his boxers and grinds his arse encouragingly against it. This elicits another moan from Sherlock, low and rather desperate.

“Still want to go slow?” Sherlock breathes against John's ear before nipping at the tender shell and John shivers. Sherlock continues to rub John's cock, his own erection thrusting between John's buttocks as Sherlock slowly rotates his hips.

“Who's the tease now?” John pants.

“Just feeding you your own medicine, Doctor.” Sherlock's voice is deep and lascivious and John can feel his body vibrating with it.

“Go on then...” John offers, and Sherlock takes him up on it, pushing his right hand beneath the elastic waistband, closing long dextrous fingers around John's aching shaft and squeezes.

“Jesus... do that again!” John pants and doesn't care how needy he sounds.

Sherlock obliges. John starts to feel slightly dizzy and fears he might keel over out of pure pleasure, melting into a quivering puddle of jelly onto the not too clean carpet. Sherlock steadies him with his left arm slung around his ribcage, a large hand pressing firmly against the middle of John's chest.

“I can feel your heartbeat,” Sherlock says, sounding amazed and almost stupefied. Sherlock holds John like this for a moment while both men just breathe together, relishing the closeness. Sherlock is stunned into silence that he can actually enjoy this. Meanwhile, John is so turned on that coming here and now is an acute possibility, his cock giving an enthusiastic twitch at this prospect. John flexes the fingers of his right hand, digging his fingernails into his palm to distract himself with pain while his other hand comes up to cover Sherlock's, interlacing their fingers.

Sherlock, continuously rubbing himself against John, doesn't make things any easier. Neither does his low and surprisingly coy question “May I... do... a thing?”

“Anything!” John huffs, absolutely meaning it.

Thus permitted, Sherlock loosens his grip on John's cock and swiftly pulls his pants down to mid-thigh. Arousal makes Sherlock somewhat clumsy and as he has just one hand free to move, John feels the need to utter a sharp reminder - “Careful!” - when his cock gets entangled in the elastic before it finally bobs free. Sherlock doesn't seem to listen, only jostles John forward until his kneecaps hit the mattress.

“Get up.” Sherlock demands urgently. After John has climbed onto the bed with Sherlock still clinging onto him, John’s torso is lowered on top of the duvet until his weight rests solely on his shoulders and his right forearm while his naked arse pokes obscenely into the air.

Only then does Sherlock untangle their fingers, again closing his right hand around John's leaking cock, giving it a few loose strokes. John braces himself on both his arms as he wonders what might happen next.

He doesn't have to wait long. Sherlock's left hand starts to massage John's arse, his breath huffing over the small of John's back as he murmurs: “Spread your knees a bit wider, John.”

That is easier said than done with John's pants still around his thighs but he tries to comply as best he can.

“Sherlock, what...? Oh god...” John's slight discomfort evaporates in bright white bliss at the touch of Sherlock's tongue between his arse cheeks, licking one broad swipe from perineum all the way up to John's tailbone.

“Ok?” Sherlock asks in his velvety voice and John can only groan with pleasure.

“John?”

“God, yes, yes... do that again. Do it!”

And Sherlock, assured, does. He tries to spread John's buttocks even wider with his free hand, grabbing one well-muscled cheek while his right hand continues to pump John's cock in a lazy rhythm. John feels pre-come drip onto Sherlock's fingers as Sherlock's tongue laps catlike at his cleft and everything starts to get extremely slippery. John relaxes into the sensation, the touch, only to jerk forward, desperately seeking friction as Sherlock closes his lips over his puckered entrance and starts to suck.

“Jesus, Sherlock...” John feels his balls tighten but Sherlock must have sensed how close John is because he removes his fist from John's shaft, only to pull John's arse more effectively apart, now that he can use both his hands.

The sucking intensifies and John is helplessly drooling onto the sheets while rutting into thin air. His stifled movements make it easier for Sherlock's next onslaught on John’s body as he pushes the tip of his tongue just inside John’s rectum while John thrusts back against his face.

Both men moan, Sherlock's voice muffled by John's marvellous arse, John's by the forearm he's biting down on hard. He needs the pain as an antidote to this fucking brilliant feeling that sears up his spinal cord, exploding in his brain, releasing a wave of endorphins to rush through his veins as Sherlock continues to fuck his arse with his stiff, wet and very skilled tongue. He drives it deeper and deeper into John's body, poking inside the yielding ring of muscle as far as anatomically possible and John moans uncontrollably because this feels so fucking good John could do this all day why had he never done this before he had no idea people did this thing for real of course he'd heard about it but thought it dirty and filthy and _OH MY GOD_ it is dirty and filthy and so so good soft smooth and silky but at the same time hard and invading but gentle and tender and he thinks about other things that could be put up his yielding arse for example Sherlock's thick cock and suddenly John can't hold it back won't hold it back it's too bright too much and he can feel his balls tighten and then his arsehole spasms and flutters against Sherlock's lips as John’s climax hits him. It's unstoppable, nearly unbearable. John shoots come all over the covers and even up to his chin while shouting Sherlock's name. 

Sherlock doesn't relent as John starts to quiver and thrust but continues to push his tongue into John's hole even more forcefully until he can sense John's orgasm ebbing. Only when John's shuddering convulsions recede does Sherlock remove his mouth to rests his cheek on one of John's buttocks.

John is still panting heavily, his eyes screwed shut. He can feel Sherlock's hot unsteady breath gushing over his wet cleft, sending goosebumps up his sweaty spine while his wobbly legs start to go numb.

“Ya 'lright?” John mumbles, dazed and still shaking from the force of his release.

“Mmh...” is all he gets for an answer.

“God, that was...” John's lost for words.

“Mmh...”

John suddenly doubts that everything is fine with Sherlock. Monosyllabic humming has never occurred before. As one of Sherlock's hands gently strokes the back of John's left thigh, John shifts his head a bit and opens his eyes to peer back at Sherlock, slouched over his body, still wearing his open shirt and slightly creased bespoke trousers.

“Sherlock?” He tries again, as a sharp pain suddenly soars through his body. “Ah... fuck... Sherlock, move, get off me... ouch!”

John slumps down inelegantly and lands in on uncomfortably cold and rather sticky patch of bedding. He rolls on his side, squirming while trying to pull his left leg up to stretch it, but is hindered by his pants still tangled around his legs. Sherlock is quite unceremoniously shoved away and flips down onto the mattress, only to be nearly kicked in the face when John ineptly starts to wriggle out of his boxers while cursing under his breath.

“John... what...,” Sherlock grunts, perplexed and confused. “John... watch out... what are you doing?”

“Cramp. Left leg. Fuck!” John gasps out, obviously in agony.

Sherlock sits up abruptly, pulling at the twisted fabric of John's pants and in a rather undignified struggle both men finally conquer the task of getting rid of John's underwear. This accomplished, Sherlock takes John's left foot in both his hands and presses up against the ball while demanding “Stretch your leg.”

“Who's the doctor here? Aah... shit! Fucking hell! Sherlock, this hurts!”

Sherlock smirks.

“Better?”

“No!” John wails, despite his muscles slowly relaxing. After a few seconds he has to grudgingly concede. “Yes.” 

Sherlock puts John's foot carefully down and starts to massage his femoral muscles, urging John's knee up to reach his hamstrings.

John looks at him a bit sheepishly. “Sorry.” He blushes.

“What for?” Sherlock asks bewildered, all the while kneading John's thigh.

“For... I don't know... missing out on post-orgasmic cuddling because my sorry old carcass failed me?”

“I'm not one for cuddling.” Sherlock says the word as if it describes something rather gross and indecent. That coming from the man who just had his tongue up John's arse makes John smile.

“How do you know?” John asks smugly.

Sherlock just glares back at him and removes his hands from John's body.

“Stop that.”

“What?” John asks innocently.

“You sound like my brother and I will not have that in our bedroom.” Now Sherlock behaves seriously miffed.

“Then make me shut up.” John's smile borders on wicked.

“Innuendo doesn't suit you, Doctor Watson.” Sherlock informs John, sounding a bit piqued.

But John just shrugs. “It was worth a try.”

“You can't be that insatiable.” Sherlock states, his expression wavering between disbelieving and slightly impressed.

“That wasn't exactly about me.” John grins

“What do you mean?” Sherlock brow furrows. As an answer, John makes an uncommitted gesture with one hand toward Sherlock's middle section. His prevailing erection is clearly visible, trapped inside the soft wool of his exquisitely cut trousers.

It takes Sherlock a moment to catch on and look down at his crotch. “I'm fine.” He says flatly.

John scoops a little closer. “You always say that. But... don't you want to... I don't know, get off?”

John shrinks a little under Sherlock's piercing gaze. “It's not that easy, John.” Sherlock's voice is suddenly rather cold.

“So there's nothing I could do for you?” John offers carefully reserved.

“How about change the subject for a start?”

“And what are you about to do with... that?” Another vague wave of the hand, this time more obviously directed at Sherlock's groin.

“I'll take care of that in the shower, if you don't mind.” Sherlock starts to shuffle back to get up.

John grabs his wrist and Sherlock stills. “Wait.”

“Why? Do you want to shower first? You just had a bath.” Sherlock seems a bit nonplussed. His gaze trails down where John's fingers are wrapped around his arm.

John quickly removes his hand. That has possibly been a bit not good...

“No, I just thought... perhaps, you could... you know...?”

But it's apparent that Sherlock doesn't, going by his look of utter incomprehension. John has no choice but to spell it out.

“You could do it here... with me... while I watch.” John swallows. He's sure he's turned bright red. Suddenly he becomes very aware of his flaccid cock, his scar, his slightly podgy belly and the dried come covering his chest. Perhaps right now he's just not the sexiest wank material imaginable?

As if to prove him right Sherlock sits up in silence and looks at John, tilting his head to one side to examine him thoroughly. John feels himself crumbling and shrivelling until Sherlock asks disbelievingly: “You'd like to watch that? Seriously?”

“Oh god yes, please, Sherlock, let me watch you touch yourself.” John skids up the bed until he can rest his back against the headboard to give Sherlock some space.

Sherlock still seems to contemplate the idea. Finally, he says: “I'm not sure if this will work.”

“Sherlock, please... I promise, I won't suddenly want to... participate.”

Sherlock looks sceptical.

“I swear. You can tie me up if you don't believe me.”

“You'd like that, wouldn’t you?” Sherlock's voice all of a sudden sounds incredibly low and dirty. John feels himself getting blotchy with bright pink patches all over.

“Maybe next time,” Sherlock murmurs and despite his age and current shagged-out condition, John's cock gives a sympathetic twitch.

John swallows, hard. Next time. Jesus Christ.

But then Sherlock moves a bit closer and starts to unhook his fly and John's mind goes blank. Sherlock slowly pulls the zip down and shimmies out of his tight bespoke trousers. Underneath, he's only wearing snug grey boxer briefs. His impressive erection strains against its cotton barrier, the glistening head just visible above the waistband. John unconsciously licks his lips. God, how he'd love to lick Sherlock, taste him.

Sherlock sits back on his heels and starts to palm himself lazily, looking down, watching his hand hovering over his cock. His abdominal muscles are tense, easily visible beneath his pale skin and the downy black hair trailing down from his navel. When he eventually raises his eyes, gazing at John from under his lashes, they are almost black and slightly glazed over; there's a lovely pink flush creeping down Sherlock's long neck, slowly spreading over his chest.

To steady himself, Sherlock grabs the headboard with his left hand before pushing his right into his pants. A few deft strokes and he is panting, his chest heaving, his thighs trembling. He stops just long enough to pull his boxers down, and as his cock springs free John can't help himself, he groans, deep and guttural.

Sherlock's cock is magnificent; long and thick, his balls already tight against his body. The wiry black hair surrounding it is a stark contrast to his white skin, as is the dusky pink glans protruding from Sherlock's fist, shiny with precome as the foreskin is fully retracted.

Soon Sherlock's fingers are glistening wet while his strokes make slick noises as he speeds up. The tendons on his neck strain; the hand on the headboard clenches to hold tight. Sherlock's eyes are still fixed on John's face. As Sherlock brushes his thumb over the slit of his cock he can't hold back a gasp.

John feels pinned to the spot. He can't move. He has to watch and the intimacy of the moment is almost breathtaking. It makes his head spin. He wants to touch, he wants to taste, he wants to lick the sweat from Sherlock's temple and kiss those pink lips, wants to suck his nipples and his cock until Sherlock comes in thick shots down his throat. But he isn't allowed. John balls his hands into fists so as not to touch either himself or Sherlock and hopes that when Sherlock finally comes some of it will hit him on the chest or belly or – even better – in the vicinity of his already once again half hard cock.

Sherlock suddenly tightens the grip on his cock but slows down a fraction.

“John,” he pants.

John has to swallow twice before he's able to form words, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's fist working his cock.

“Yeah?” John's voice is rough with desire.

“What are you thinking about?” God, that voice, deep and dark and rumbling. It does things to John he's not ready to face yet.

“Can't you... can't you deduce?” John has to cough to clear his throat.

“I want to hear you say it...” Sherlock's voice actually shakes a little.

“I... I want you to... come all over me.” John gasps out in a throaty whisper.

Sherlock scoots closer. He's up on his knees and only inches away. John can smell him.

“Is that all?”

“God, Sherlock...” John can't say this out loud. It's too much to demand.

“When I was... you know... earlier... what did you want?” Sherlock's hand is barely moving now; he just holds his swollen cock in his fist, pressing down at the base so as not to come right there and then. The slit leaks a clear drop of precome and Sherlock angles his hips forward to make sure the clear fluid lands on John’s thigh.

“Oh, god! Fuck me!” John grunts. “You know that's what I want. I want you to fuck me.”

They lock eyes. John's skin prickles all over under Sherlock's intense stare.

“Do you have condoms?” The apparent need in Sherlock's tone jerks John into action.

“Yeah... god, yes of course... up in my room.” John can't quite believe what's happening.

“Get them.” Sherlock growls. John jumps out of bed and sprints up the stairs, taking two steps at a time (which must look rather undignified for a middle aged British male with a hard-on but John doesn't give a fuck right now). He rummages through the drawer of his bedside table, finds a pack of condoms – red, strawberry flavour, but sod it – and is down in their bedroom barely 30 seconds after leaving, tossing the blister pack in Sherlock's outreached hand. Sherlock frowns a bit when he sees the fancy label but John just shrugs and grins.

“Well, some say it tastes better with flavour.”

“No, it doesn't.”

John watches awkwardly as Sherlock rips the pack open and rolls the sheath on.

“Don't we need... something... slippery?” John's asks, suddenly experiencing nerves. He's not getting cold feet but it all of a sudden seems so... real. Face it, Watson, you're about to take it up the arse.

As an answer Sherlock just opens the top drawer of his bedside cabinet and takes out a purple tube.

“Sure that's not Superglue or Deep Relief?” John giggles nervously.

“Why would I keep adhesives or antirheumatic ointment in my bedroom?” Sherlock asks puzzled.

“Why do you keep heads in the fridge?”

“Where else am I supposed to put them? Seriously, John. Now get on the bed.”

“I love your take at foreplay.”

“I have barely started.” 

John climbs back onto the bed and Sherlock hands him a pillow. “Put that under your hip.”  
John presses the pillow against his stomach and starts to lie on his belly.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asks irritated.

“Getting laid?” John grumbles exasperated. This is becoming a shade annoying.

“But not like that. Turn around.” Sherlock snaps. John is sure he's rolling his eyes.

Shooting Sherlock a dark look over his shoulder John reluctantly turns around until he sits on his arse. Sherlock waves his hand and gestures for John to lie down on his back, then takes the pillow John is still clutching in front of his private parts and shoves it unceremoniously under John's lower back while pushing his legs up.

“What... Sherlock, could you... What are you doing?” John's erection is flagging rapidly. Being manhandled this way reminds him of Sherlock making use of corpses at Bart's morgue.

“Getting you into position.”

“Sherlock, I'm a breathing human being. You could just tell me...”

“Tedious. Besides, I tried but as always, you didn't listen. Now shut up, John, if this is going to get anywhere.”

“I'm not sure I'm still in the mood.” John grumbles.

Sherlock doesn't seem to recognise the effect his tone and general attitude has on John as he demands: “Grab the back of your knees.” John does but has no idea where all this is leading to. He's lying flat on his back, his arse raised by the pillow and wonders what he'd let himself in for. When he hears the cap of the lube bottle flip open and feels a cold dollop hit his exposed anus he hisses: “Fuck, Sherlock!”

“Relax if you want to.” Sherlock purrs, kneeling between John's spread legs. There's pressure against John's rectum and then he shudders as he feels Sherlock's finger breach his rim.

“Careful, please...” John whimpers. It's a strange experience, not entirely unpleasant but odd. The weirdness of the situation is increased by John's impression that Sherlock is rather performing some sort of menial task than engaging in an act of wanton passion.

But when John looks up at Sherlock's face all doubt and reluctance leaves him in an instant. Sherlock watches, mesmerised, as his finger sinks deeper into John, shameless longing so openly displayed on his sharp features that John can't help himself but moan with desire.

“Ok?” Sherlock asks enthralled, not taking his eyes from where his finger is lodged up to the first knuckle.

“Yeah,” John sighs. Sherlock smiles and curls his finger upwards, pushing in just a little deeper. John sees stars and his hips buck up on their own account.

“Jesus, you really know what you are doing.” John pants.

“Of the two of us it's me who actually had anal intercourse before, so yes, I know what I'm doing. Just let me...” Sherlock has started to stroke himself again to full hardness and the idea of that gorgeous cock brushing over that spot deep inside him suddenly fills John with a craving for more, faster, harder.

But as patience is apparently called for John lies back, closes his eyes and lets Sherlock ease the path. He moans as a second finger is added and starts to push back onto them after a few minutes. Despite his usual snappiness, Sherlock takes his time to carefully prepare John. It seems to take ages before a third finger is thrust inside him.

John is sweaty all over. His cock is not fully hard but that is not to be expected at his age and after a rather spectacular orgasm merely an hour ago. Anyway, he's had enough.

“I'm ready. God, Sherlock, I'm so ready. Now get on with it...,” he begs.

“Shh, John. I decide when you're ready.”

The firmness in Sherlock's voice makes John roll his hips and sigh.

“Am I detecting a submissive streak, Captain?” Sherlock asks and it doesn't sound nearly as sassy as it is intended because the line is delivered in a somewhat raw and throaty voice.

“Well, you are the consulting detective in this bed. Ah, Sherlock, just fuck me, will you?”

Sherlock looks at John, takes in his pink face, hooded eyes, his heaving chest, his usually fair hair now dark and spiky with sweat. Sherlock seems satisfied with the debauched abandonment he encounters because he slowly removes his fingers.

“Grab the headboard.” It's not an order but Sherlock's tone bids no objection either.

OK, John thinks, it's finally happening. This is the real thing. God help me, I'm about to get fucked by Sherlock Holmes.

John does as he is told and locks eyes with Sherlock, who is lubing himself thoroughly. The bright red condom should look ridiculous but instead it actually frightens John a little. He sincerely hopes Sherlock knows what he's doing.

It gives John some confidence when Sherlock arranges his limbs with deft precision, spreading his legs a little wider before lifting one foot up to rest on his left shoulder. John shivers, feeling exposed and almost folded in half. He might be too old for this kind of stuff if it calls for this kind of gymnastics.

“Breathe,” Sherlock murmurs as he lines himself up with one hand while grabbing the back of John's right thigh with the other, pushing it up almost to John's shoulder. John exhales and tries as best as he can to unwind and loosen his muscles but the weird sensation of something quite big bluntly nudging against his rectum makes him tense up. Sherlock presses forward regardless, watching captivated as the head of his cock breaches John's body, slowly sinking into him. Sherlock's eyes are hooded, two bright pink spots burn on his cheekbones and he seems so gone that John momentarily forgets his discomfort, until Sherlock pushes forward just a little bit more. John inhales sharply. This is not just unpleasant, it hurts. The pain shoots through him and John can't help it, he hisses in irritation and brings one hand up to Sherlock's protruding hipbone to stop him from going deeper.

“Sherlock, please... stop!” John pants. “It hurts.”

“I said relax.” Sherlock growls.

“I can't. Because.It.Hurts.” John emphasises every word to make sure his message comes across.

Sherlock finally looks at John – his face that is – and takes in all the sings of his obvious unease.

“You don't like it.” Sherlock touches the base of his cock to prevent the condom from rolling off as he starts to pull out. But John grabs his forearm to stop him.

“Don't you dare! It feels... odd. It hurts. But don't stop. Just go slowly.” John tries a reassuring smile. Sherlock just stares back at him. Not very convincing, then...

“We don't have to do this.” Sherlock states quietly.

“I think we have.” John replies. “I want you. Go on.”

Sherlock still looks at John, a curious expression on his face. When he moves again it is very careful and timid. While pushing further in Sherlock lowers John's leg from his shoulder to wrap around his hips instead. Meanwhile he bows down until his tongue can brush against John's lower lip. John arches up and opens his mouth; the kiss is messy and wet until suddenly Sherlock thrusts into John viciously, burying himself to the hilt. John's scream is stifled by Sherlock's insistent tongue, his hands are trapped in Sherlock's death grip at his wrists above his head (when did that happen?) and John feels helplessly pinned down beneath Sherlock, almost impaled.

Now it really hurts. God, it burns! John feels like being ripped in two. He writhes, trying to push Sherlock away, the agony paralysing him. But is it only agony? Because as Sherlock, while still smashing their mouths together, lazily rolls his hips a spark of pleasure spreads through John's body. Sherlock seems to sense that John finally relents a fraction and does it again. As John's resistance seems to crumble, Sherlock starts to move in earnest. He breaks the kiss – if you could actually call it that – in favour of biting down John's neck. The sharp pain on his sensitive skin further distracts John from his discomfort below.

Then one of Sherlock's shallow thrusts suddenly hits the sweet spot inside him and John almost arches off the bed.

His heel start to dig in the small of Sherlock's back as John pulls him closer, eager and needy. The stretch is still unfamiliar and nearly too much but John is getting accustomed to it. His grunts become more and more an expression of pleasure. His face is sweaty, his eyes burn, his body is tense but the intimacy of what they are doing is incredibly arousing.

When he looks up at Sherlock it is quite clear that he is at least as affected as John. His body is glistening with sweat, his eyes are closed and dark curls stick to his temple and forehead as he rocks his body against John's. The moan that escapes John is lewd and low and suddenly Sherlock's eyes fly open to watch.

He stills. “Ok?”

John just nods. Sherlock stares down at him, his face contorting in pure bliss as he continues to move. He's speeding up now, his thrusts going deeper, becoming more forceful. It feels like Sherlock is invading John, claiming him and John just gives over to this new and unknown feeling of receiving, of being entered and owned.

Sherlock eventually releases John’s wrists and grips his hips instead; John instinctively holds onto the headboard again. They lock eyes. John licks his lips; Sherlock watches him, utterly focused, before he starts to fuck him in earnest. And John takes it.

He wants it.

So John tells Sherlock, “God, Sherlock, fuck me!”

And Sherlock does. Hard and fast. There's no pain, just euphoria, oblivion, ecstasy. Sherlock hits John's prostate again and again but it's not just that, it's the closeness, the passion, the abandon that makes John beg for it, crave it.

“More! I need it. Please, Sherlock...” John is reduced to a panting mess. It's glorious. Even his spent cock stirs and twitches, half hard and leaking.

Sherlock gasps; He's almost sobbing, holding onto John's hips for dear life, slamming into John. He's obviously beyond speech, his eyes screwed shut by now to concentrate on keeping his frantic rhythm until his hips stutter and he freezes.

John can feel Sherlock's cock swell and pulse inside him. It's unbelievable. John knows only the giving side of this which intensifies his new experience even more.

When it's over and the tension leaves his body, Sherlock just slumps down on top of John. For such a wiry man he's surprisingly heavy when reduced to a boneless pile of human flesh. John's arms come up to close loosely around Sherlock's shoulders while Sherlock's head nuzzles against John's moist collar bone. John can feel Sherlock's body shake and shiver and just holds him, not too tight but just close enough to keep him grounded as he drifts through post-orgasmic haze.

They stay like this for a long while, just breathing; sighing from time to time, until Sherlock jerks abruptly and sits up. He grabs the base of his flagging cock as he pulls out and John is rather grateful that he's spared a trip to A&E to remove a slipped condom from his colon.

Sherlock tosses the Durex somewhere into the darkness beyond the ray of light cast by the bedside lamp. As it is technically his room John can't be arsed to admonish him. He can yell at Sherlock if he accidentally steps into it tomorrow. For now, John just wants to curl up here besides Sherlock and for once they seem to be on the same page, since Sherlock lies down beside him, wrapping one thin arm and one long leg around John's more solid frame.

“How's your lip?” Sherlock asks tentatively, mumbling against John's skin.

John had almost forgotten the punch and just grunts in reply, pulling the duvet up around them.

They can talk in the morning. They have to talk in the morning. About consent and what stop means, about how they both feel (John imagines he'll do most of the talking on that point, while Sherlock will contribute little else than expressive eye-rolling). He's faintly curious how they will both acknowledge this new stage of their relationship.

They might have to consider telling people; at least Mrs Hudson.

And John has a lot of question. About how Sherlock copes, for example, about what else might be lurking in his past, or even in the present. He resents the potential answers (if any will be forthcoming) but has to ask anyway.

He knows there'll be dark days ahead. Days filled with yelling and shouting. Silent days. But no more lonely days.

They have so much time, John thinks, they'll get it sorted in the end. Never mind...

“John?”

“Mmh?”

“Thank you.”

Despite the leaden weariness spreading through his body John snorts a laugh. “Seriously, Sherlock?” He might never hear Sherlock say I love you but if this is as good as it gets, John's fine with it.

Sherlock smiles. “Yes.”

John grins.

“You're welcome.”

Sherlock lies awake a long time after John has fallen asleep, listening to his breathing, cataloguing the freckles on his shoulders, memorising the curl at the nape of John's neck, his smell after sex, the firmness of his warm flesh beneath his fingers.

He knows this won't last. It never does. But for once he'll make the best of it for as long as possible. Because this feels... good? Yes, it actually feels good. And right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be an epilogue.


	15. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Three years later..._

_Well, I'm hardly getting over it_   
_Hardly getting by_

John ascends the 17 steps leading up to the flat in high spirits. Even the three Tesco bags that cut into his fingers can't diminish the pure glee he experiences while walking up. Being able to do this again, after all that has happened... no, stop it right here, Watson! Let bygones be bygones. No use crying over spilled milk.

But that is easier said than done. The most mundane things remind him of all the time they've lost. Now even buying some plain yoghurt (Sherlock can't stand any fruity variant because of the bits in it while Mary had particularly loved those) is transformed into an act of redemption and reminds John how short life can be and how much he should cherish it.

_Mary..._ don't think about it! It is over.

John takes the last step and a deep breath before opening the door leading directly into the kitchen. He drops the bags onto the almost clean kitchen table (just a few sealed plastic containers, nothing too drastic) and shouts: “I'm back, Sherlock! They didn't have White Spirit but I got you petroleum. Fancy that should do just as well.”

No answer. Which sadly isn't that unusual since.... Sherlock's quieter now, often lost in thoughts. Or actually asleep. Like, really sound asleep, in the afternoon, on the couch. Because he doesn't sleep well at night. Fair enough, Sherlock has always been an early riser but these days he often thrashes in his dreams and sometimes wakes up with a strangled sob, the sheets all twisted and sweaty. He usually gets up then and goes over into the sitting room to play his violin, regardless of the hour. John pretends not to notice and fakes snoring to give Sherlock some space.

No, the truth is that John has no idea how to address what troubles Sherlock. He is clearly a haunted man but John feels rather ill equipped to give him advice or offer condolence. Whatever had happened when Sherlock had been... away, it surely left its mark. And John isn't ready to deal with the fallout just yet, when everything is still so raw and fresh.

John knows they will have to talk about it, whatever it consists of (nothing good, that much John is sure of). But not right now. It seems too intimate, too soon. They've barely had proper sex yet. Well, John, nice how you set your preferences... John admonishes himself.

But it's true. There's been one ferocious shag the night after Mary had been exposed, more adrenaline fuelled than driven by love. Sherlock had fucked John on the sitting room floor, hard and fast and desperate, staying almost fully clothed in his need and urgency to claim and possess again what once had been his but what he'd since... lost? Forsaken? Sacrificed?

It had been carnal and very physical, an almost brutal fuck instead of the sensuous lovemaking of times gone by. Sherlock had bitten and torn at every inch of John's bare skin he'd been able to reach but had shied away when John had tried to reciprocate. They'd collapsed onto the carpet afterwards and held each other, stroking, panting until they'd fallen asleep; they'd paid the next morning with stiff limbs and aching joints.

That had been the day John had decided to move back. But since then, instead of opening up, Sherlock has retreated more and more into himself. He doesn't initiate anything, not even a kiss. Mere touches make him go still and entangle himself. John has tried to ignore it, too afraid of what he might find if he started to analyse Sherlock's behaviour, but knows deep down that this circumvention can't go on forever.

There had been a time when they'd been able to be honest with one another. But since his return, Sherlock is again hiding behind indifference and dismissiveness.

And how is John to ask what has happened when h’/e is afraid of the answer he might get? If he gets one at all.

So he stays silent, tries to ignore Sherlock's behaviour and makes excuses for him; like, when Sherlock stops talking mid-sentence, his eyes losing focus; hadn't he always done this?

Or that he doesn't eat anything except plain yoghurt and dry toast; he'd never been a keen eater anyway.

Or the long silences; Sherlock hasn't a case on but is lying on the couch anyway in his thinking pose, staring at the ceiling for hours.

Or the nightmares.

Or the rejection of touch.

Stop it! John tells himself again. This is leading nowhere; or, indeed, only to a very dark and unsavoury place.

John has, by now, finished putting away the shopping and wanders over into the sitting room, only to find it empty. There's a mug on the coffee table though, indicating that Sherlock has been up. But the tea is cold.

John goes back into the hall; Sherlock's Belstaff still hangs on its hook. He seldom leaves the flat these days anyway... another point not to be considered too closely right now.

“Sherlock?” John takes a few steps towards the slightly ajar bedroom door, then hesitates before he glimpses inside. The bright afternoon sun is shining through the rather grimy window, its yellow warmth and bright light forming a stark contrast to the exhausted, gaunt figure crouching by the bed. Sherlock has hugged his legs and rests his forehead against his knees. John can make out the vertebrae under the thin cotton of his old t-shirt (he doesn't dress as meticulously as before, either; now it's mostly sweat pants and baggy sweaters instead of tight dress shirts and sharp suits.)

“Sherlock?” John's voice is low, not an actual whisper but just very quiet.

Sherlock doesn't move, doesn't answer, doesn't even look.

“Sherlock?” John asks again. This is getting scary.

To counter the helpless feeling of dread creeping up on him, John takes a brave step inside the room. The sheets on the bed are still rumpled, there are clothes, papers and books lying everywhere and next to Sherlock stands one of the big cardboard boxes that hold their stuff from... before. There are two dozen of them, stowed away in his old room upstairs, abandoned for years, covered in dust.

John clenches his left hand once, twice. “Sherlock, please...” His voice is thin with worry.

This elicits a minute reaction; Sherlock shrugs without raising his head, just a small movement of his tense shoulders. At least he acknowledges John's presence and reacts to it. A small victory after all.

“What is it? Did something happen?” John instantly feels a little bit more in charge of the situation. He dares to walk up to Sherlock and kneels down beside him. “Hey.” He says softly. “Talk to me.”

Sherlock exhales a long sigh before finally looking up. His face is ashen, the lips dry, eyes shining too bright. He looks like he's seen a ghost.

“Hey.” John says again, brushing a wayward curl from Sherlock's forehead. His fingertips linger on the clammy skin of Sherlock's temple where a blue vein is throbbing beneath too tight skin.

And then John sees it. A heap of dark crumbles, some bigger pieces still intact and recognisable – an arm, a leg. John lifts one chunk off the floor, holding the stale bit between thumb and forefinger.

“Where did you find this”? John asks, his tone a mix of bewilderment and horror.

Sherlock coughs and swallows hard but his voice is still hoarse when he answers: “Must have been Mrs Hudson. She packed my stuff and stored it... after... you know.” John just gives a curt nod. “I would have expected the police to take it away. But then, if Anderson had been on forensics, anything is possible.” Sherlock tries for a smile; the muscles in his face hurt.

John stares back at Sherlock, blinking rapidly; he feels on the brink of tears. Because he sees how hard Sherlock tries – yet it seems in vain. “We had better bin it. Who knows what kind of germs might have colonised this... thing.” He should get up, get a dustpan and brush. There's a plastic bag next to the heap of crumbs. John should pick them up and stuff them in that bag, out of sight, away.

But they both keep sitting on the floor, frozen. It takes John some effort to finally ask. “Do you remember...?” He has to take another deep breath. “Do you remember that night? Because I do. I do.” There's a vehemence in John's tone that startles Sherlock. “I think I can even pin down the exact moment when everything went to hell.” John's breathing has become ragged.

“If you are starting to hyperventilate, don't use that bag.” Sherlock deadpans and John can't help it; he snorts a laugh before pulling Sherlock into a fierce hug. The angle is odd and Sherlock's bony shoulder bumps uncomfortably into John's sternum but he couldn't care less.

“Don't you dare ever leave me again, Sherlock.” John hisses against Sherlock's nape. “Don't you dare.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and brings his arms around John's waist, holding onto him.

“You left me as well,” is his muffled answer.

John goes very still. Breathe, he thinks, as pictures flood his mind: A broken body, strangely distorted, dark wool soaked in bright red blood that quickly oxidised into a rusty viscous liquid when coming into contact with air.; a copper smell suddenly filling his nostrils. John nearly gags. “I had to watch you jump off a building. You were lying in a puddle of blood on the pavement... It was everywhere. You had no pulse...” John is unable to suppress the choking sound that escapes his mouth.

“You fell in love.” Sherlock presses his nose against John's clavicle, inhaling his scent. Tea, wool, cheap soap, a hint of shaving cream. “You got married.”

“I thought... you died. You were dead!” John sobs, rocking Sherlock back and forth.

“Except I wasn't. That would have absolutely disqualified me from being your best man.” Despite a cold and hollow ache spreading inside his chest at the memory of the wedding, Sherlock experiences a desperate need to lighten the mood. Because John is crying now, his tears dampening the collar of Sherlock's t-shirt, seeping through the thin cotton onto cool skin. 

But John stubbornly refuses to stop weeping. He just grabs Sherlock tighter. His body is trembling as all the pent-up hurt, anxiety and grieve pour finally out of him.

“John, please...” Sherlock is acutely aware how helpless he sounds.

“Just stay here, with me, for a minute. Ok?” John huffs. “Just let me...”

“Of course.”

The moment stretches. For lack of anything else to do Sherlock starts to stroke John's back, his hand moving tentatively up and down the soft maroon jumper. John still clings to him like a drowning man but eventually his sobbing recedes. He wipes his face with his sleeve and isn't embarrassed when he finally releases Sherlock. Instead, John smiles a sad smile.

“We wasted so much time, Sherlock. It took us so long to finally get there and then... we lost everything.” John's shoulders sag and his puffy eyes are filled with regret.

“Perhaps we needed the time? To be sure?”

“I was sure.”

“You still married her.”

“Because you... left me. I was so alone, afterwards...” John can't go on. He isn't yet ready to tell Sherlock about the black months he'd spent staring at the barrel of his gun, weighing it in his hand. He has no memory of the funeral. All he remembers is throwing a few things into a holdall and leaving Baker Street in the middle of the night. He'd stayed at a hotel for a few days until he'd found an anonymous bedsit in Croyden.

“I missed you.” Sherlock's voice is very soft. He can't look at John, just stares at the remains of the gingerbread man. “Every day. I missed you. Even after I came back.”

John's chest feels tight. He slowly shakes his head.

“We fucked up pretty badly, don't you think?” John can't help it, suddenly a giggle bubbles up in his throat. If someone is predestined to screw up a fragile love affair, it's them.

And despite all his sorrow, all his regrets, Sherlock grins back, his bleak features lighting up with a real smile. “Thoroughly.”

John holds him at arm’s length, shrugs, then smooths down Sherlock's t-shirt that has ridden up almost to the middle of his back. It's then that he more feels then sees it. And Sherlock registers. Of course he does. John's eyes widen in shock; he can't feign not noticing. “God, Sherlock, what...?”

But Sherlock almost jumps to his feet and stumbles backwards, nearly losing his balance. Instead of gaining leverage he pulls down his t-shirt and therefore crashes sideways into the wall. His face briefly contorts with pain as he turns towards the door to grab a much too large black hoodie that was hanging there and pulls it over his head.

But no matter how fast he moves, John is up and behind him just in time to press his hands firmly against the door, detaining Sherlock from rushing out of the room.

“Let me!” Sherlock demands, his voice tight and high. It's almost a whine but John doesn't give in. Instead, he hurls one arm around Sherlock's waist to prevent him from struggling and brushes up the shirt and hoodie with his free hand while pinning Sherlock face down against the door

What he reveals makes his heart sink. Most of the scars have faded to light pink gashes but some wounds are still an aggressive bright red. John stares, cataloguing; he's been to war, he knows what he's looking at. The deeper incisions are not smooth enough to have been made by a knife. Rather a blunt instrument; back in Afghanistan they'd often used a screw driver as it came in handy and caused a lot of pain. But here are round scars in different sizes as well, the skin shining a delicate rose: burns. And, on Sherlock's lower back, a pattern of quite well healed parallel welts – presumably caused by some sort of whip.

John ghosts his fingertips over the craters; Sherlock's back is a map of battles lost.

“Who did this to you?” John asks, his voice surprisingly steady. Sherlock has finally stilled and sagged on his arm, one hand pressed against the door frame to support his weight.

“Some... ? I don't... I can't. Please.” When Sherlock's voice fails him John just holds him, pulling the layers of cloth back down, covering the cruel remnants of what Sherlock has been through.

“We have to talk about this.” John whispers against his nape. “You know we have.”

Sherlock nods; John pulls him up and turns him around, cradling his face. Sherlock is pliant, which immediately raises John's suspicion. “I mean it, Sherlock. You have to tell me.”

“But not now, please. Not now.” Sherlock's head drops onto John's shoulder as his hands come up around John's waist.

John gently strokes his hair. “No, not now.”

They stand like this for some time, two men in their forties; two bachelors (one once had been married to his work but that didn't count; the other had been married to an assassin. Mycroft had seen to it that this doesn't count in the end, either). Both their bodies are scarred. Their hair is beginning to grey; John has to wear glasses sometimes now, to read the papers or type on his blog. He'd started blogging again just a few days back when the annulment had finally come through. The first post John made was to inform his readers that he'd be moving back in with Sherlock Holmes.

They are both home now. It has taken them long enough.

“Would you care to sort through those boxes with me upstairs?” John asks for want of anything better to say.

Sherlock finally disentangles himself from John and shrugs. He looks a bit lost in the much-too-big sweater, making him appear even more fragile and very young. “Might as well. Though I don't think it's really necessary. We don't need that room anymore. We could just leave all those things up there.”

John brings his fingers back up to brush over Sherlock's lips, lifting his chin ever so slightly with his thumb.

“You started, nevertheless.” John nods over Sherlock's shoulder at the cardboard box. “As much as I'm glad to be back... as much as I'm glad you are back... I think having a room for myself might be a sensible idea. You know, we should take it slowly. We have all the time in the world...”

“Bollocks!” Sherlock almost yells and John is shocked by his fierce reaction. He'd just wanted to do the right thing, give Sherlock some space, time to adjust.

“I don't need that.” And then Sherlock's mouth is on John's, messy and a bit uncoordinated but hell, so hot. Just as John melts into the kiss, Sherlock grabs his upper arms and pushes him away, back against the door. “I don't need your consideration. I need you! And you don't need the room upstairs. Can we stop this? It took us so long... let's just do it right, this time.”

And John can't help but smile, looking, most likely, slightly befuddled. “But there might be some stuff we need up there.”

Sherlock kisses John again, hungrily. “We didn't need it the past three years. It can't be that important, can it?”

John considers Sherlock's words. “Isn't there anything you'd like to keep?”

“Nothing. It's just... stuff, from before... I don't want it any more, any of it. I think we should start afresh.”

“No memorabilia?”

“I don't need _things_ to remember. If I hadn't known that before, I surely learned it when I was away.”

John just grins and kisses Sherlock again, tenderly and exploratory this time. There is a brief moment when a look of haunted sadness passes over Sherlock's face, and John would give his right arm to make it go away. Whatever happened to Sherlock, wherever he's been – it has changed him profoundly; John realises that now. He equally hopes and fears that Sherlock will tell him one day.

“Ok, then we'll get all the stuff down to Oxfam, shall we?”

Sherlock nods.

And John understands. Up there in the attic linger ghosts from their past. And they are neither ready to face them. There's nothing to be gained by reminding themselves over and over again what they've lost, missed, what has been taken away from them. They are together now, and that is all that matters.

\----------

Over the next few weeks John makes sure that Sherlock can sleep, even if it is with the help of strong medication. When Sherlock one evening emerges from the bathroom just in his pyjama pants and lets John see his scars John knows it’s a leap of faith but he still inhales sharply and feels uncomfortable, unable to ask.

John takes Sherlock to Angelo’s a few times where they both eat Risotto or Pasta, making sure that Sherlock dresses appropriately for these occasions. Afterwards, they watch crap telly together and John asks Sherlock’s opinion of the talk show guests; Sherlock can’t always be coaxed into deducing their dirty little secrets but sometimes he gives in just to humour John.

It’s not like it had been before but it’s slowly getting a little bit better.

Until one morning when they yell at each other because Sherlock complains about the lack of milk or something equally petty and John finally snaps because he feels so helpless in the face of this utter mess. The crockery suffers severe damage before Sherlock bolts from the kitchen and locks himself in the bathroom. John punches his fist against the door, bruising his knuckles. Just when he’s about to grab his Haversack and leave the flat, Sherlock and this whole pile of shit his life has become behind, he hears the latch being pushed back. Sherlock leans against the door frame, a syringe in one hand and a tourniquet around his upper arm, looking pensive. John walks back up to him, extending his palm, and Sherlock carefully hands over the needle.

They look at each other in silence because there’s really nothing to say. After about a minute, Sherlock simply gives a brief nod before retreating to their bedroom. John feels lost despite his relief.

That night, Sherlock tells John what happened in Serbia – well, not everything, just as much as he can manage without breaking down again. It somehow seems easier in the dark, though of course Sherlock knows that this is ridiculous. He tells John about the flogging, the whipping, the shackles. He tells John about the cold and the thirst and the hunger and the fear; the exhaustion that nearly broke him. That he'd felt so filthy, lying almost naked in his own blood, piss and vomit on a soiled concrete floor after yet another tormentor had had a go at him, literally kicking the shit out of him. John goes very quiet before wrapping one arm around Sherlock's shoulders, pulling him in.

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.” John whispers again and again, stroking Sherlock's biceps with just his fingertips, so careful, so tender.

And Sherlock wants to say that it hadn't been John's fault, that there was nothing John had to be sorry for, that he doesn't want John's pity – but the words die in his throat. Sherlock is too tired to fight it anymore. For once, he gives in and accepts it. Because he can feel that it's compassion, true sympathy. John is really deeply concerned. He wants to console Sherlock, wants to stop him aching, wants to comfort him and reassure him that he's loved. And with all his defences down – shattered by the loss, the loneliness, the pain, the anguish – Sherlock can finally say it back.

In the end it's easy. He'd said it so many times; when he'd been lying bleeding and sore in a cellar in Serbia, or lonely in a posh hotel room in Paris, or freezing while hiding in a cave in Algeria, or dozing off on a bus in Turkey, or too sober in a cab on the ride back to Baker Street after John's wedding. It had become kind of a mantra to him, a promise that kept him alive over all those years: “No more hiding. No more lies. I love you, John.”

He's loved John for so long but never told him. He'd sworn that if he'll get another chance he'll say it.

And now, finally, Sherlock is able to whisper those words against John's skin in the darkness of 221b.

“Loving you kept me alive.”

Sherlock is finally where he belongs.

It's all he's ever wanted, it's all he's dreamed of during those three years. It still feels surreal to have it now, to be able to tell John. Sherlock has to do it again and again to make sure it's for real. He doesn't understand why John holds him so close, why his voice is hoarse when he reassures Sherlock that everything will be all right now. Sherlock is not averse to these promises – even as he knows that it probably won't be that easy. It doesn't matter right now. What matters is that John is here, with him, that he is in John's arms, that John holds him and strokes him and murmurs silly endearments to him. Despite being ridiculous, Sherlock believes them, for he knows that John is nothing if not honest.

They share a few chaste kisses before eventually fatigue – physical and mental – takes over as they fall asleep.

Somehow, they’ll get by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that's it. I hope you enjoyed.   
> Thanks to everyone who read this story! I know it started rather bleak but I hope I ended on a somewhat hopeful note...  
> Thanks to everyone who commented on this or left cudos! You make me keep going!  
> And of course thanks to Lockedinjohnlock, who patiently beta'd my scribblings and kicked me to come up with a more fitting ending; because when I began to write this story I had another ending in mind. I'm glad I was made to change route...


End file.
